'«.* 




BOOKBINDER \\ 
Montreal. 




Book .S27H^ 



HESPERUS, 



er loems anb fgncs, 






BY CHARLES SANGSTEB, 

AUTHOR OF "THE ST. LAWRENCE AND THE SAG-UEXAY, AND OTHER 
POEMS." 



Montreal : 

JOHN LOYELL, ST. NICHOLAS STREET. 
JOHN CREIGHTON, KING STREET. 

1860. 



?R***1 



& >'': 



If* 



^qO^ 



1 o\ 



Entered, according to the Act of the Provincial Parliament, 
in the year one thousand eight hundred and sixty, by 
Charles Sangster, in the office of the Registrar of the 
Province of Canada. 






THESE 

| nit s a it b |f p x i t s 

ARE 

DEDICATED 

TO 

£Hg |itece, 
CARRIE MILLER, 

OF 
SANDWICH, C. W. 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

Dedicatory Poem 9 

Hesperus 11 

Crowned 29 

Mariline 30 

The Happy Harvesters 40 

Falls of the Chaudiere, Ottawa „ 53 

A Royal Welcome 59 

Malcolm 61 

The Comet, October 1858 63 

Autumn 65 

Colin 68 

Margery ,.. 70 

Eva 76 

The Poet's Recompense 77 

The Wine of Song 78 

The Plains of Abraham 80 

Death of Wolfe 83 

Brock 84 

Song for Canada 86 

Song.— I'd be a Fairy King 89 

Song. — Love while you may 91 



VI CONTENTS. 

Page. 

The Snows, Upper Ottawa 92 

The Rapid 94 

Lost and Found 96 

Young Again... 99 

Glimpses 100 

My Prayer 102 

Her Star 104 

The Mystery ., « 107 

Love and Truth 109 

The Wren Ill 

Grandpere 113 

England's Hope and England's Heir 114 

Rose 116 

The Dreamer 118 

Night and Morning 119 

Within thine eyes 120 

Gertrude 121 

Elowers 122 

The Unattainable 123 

Yearnings 124 

Ingratitude 125 

True Love 126 

An Evening Thought 127 

A Thought for Spring 128 

The Swallows 129 

Song.— Hennie and 1 130 

The April Snow Storm, 1858 132 

Good Night 134 

Hopeless 135 

Into the Silent Land 139 



CONTENTS. Vll 

SOJTlffETS:— 

Page. 

Proem 15(< 

Sonnet I 162 

II 163 ' 

% III 164 

IV 165 

V 166 

VI 167 

VII 168 

VIII 169 

IX 170 

X 171 

XI 172 

XII 173 

XIII 174 

XIV 175 

XV 176 

XVI 177 

XVII...... 178 

XVIII 179 

XIX 180 

XX 181 

XXI , 182 

XXII 183 

AuRevoir • 184 



POEMS. 



DEDICATORY POEM. 

Dear Carrie, were we truly wise, 
And could discern with, finer eyes, 

And half-inspired sense, 

The ways of Providence : 

Could we but know the hidden things 
That brood beneath the Future's wings, 

Hermetically sealed, 

But soon to be revealed : 

Would we, more blest than we are now, 
In due submission learn to bow, — 
Receiving on our knees 
The Omnipotent decrees? 

That which is just, we have. And we 
Who lead this round of mystery, 
This dance of strange unrest, 
9 What are we at the best ? — 

Unless we learn to mount and climb ; 

Writing upon the page of time, 
In words of joy or pain, 
That we've not lived in vain. 



10 DEDICATORY POEM. 

We all are Ministers of Good ; 

And where our mission's understood, 
How many hearts we must 
Raise, trembling, from the dust. 

Oh, strong young soul, and thinking brain ! 
Walk wisely through the fair domain 

Where burn the sacred fires 

Of Music's sweet desires! 

Cherish thy Gift ; and let it be 

A Jacob's ladder unto thee, 

Down which the Angels come, 
To bring thee dreams of Home. 

What were we if the pulse of Song 
Had never beat, nor found a tongue 

To make the Poet known 

In lands beyond his own ? 

Take what is said for what is meant. 
We sometimes touch the firmament 

Of starry Thought — no more ; 

Beyond, we may not soar. 

I speak not of myself, but stand 
In silence till the Master Hand 

Each fluttering thought sets free. 

God holds the golden key. 

Kingston, C. W., May 1st, 1860. 



HESPERUS: 

A LEGEND OF THE STARS. 

PRELUDE. 

The Stars are heaven's ministers j 

Right royally they teach 
God's glory and omnipotence, 

In wondrous lowly speech. 
All eloquent with music as 

The tremblings of a lyre, 
To him that hath an ear to hear 

They speak in words of fire. 

Not to learned sagas only 

Their whisperings come down ; 
The monarch is not glorified 

Because he wears a crown. 
The humblest soldier in the camp 

Can win the smile of Mars, 
And 'tis the lowliest spirits hold 

Communion with the stars. 

Thoughts too refined for utterance, 

Ethereal as the air, 
Crowd through the brain's dim labyrinths, 

And leave their impress there ; 



12 



As far along the gleaming void 
Man's tender glances roll, 

Wonder usurps the throne of speech, 
But vivifies the soul. 

Oh, heaven-cradled mysteries, 

What sacred paths ye've trod — 
Bright, jewelled scintillations from 

The chariot-wheels of God ! 
When in the spirit He rode forth, 

With vast creative aim, 
These were His footprints left behind, 

To magnify His name ! 

We gazed on the Evening Star, 

Mary and I, 

As it shone 

On its throne 
Afar, 

In the blue sky ; 
Shone like a ransomed soul 
In the depths of that quiet heaven ; 

Like a pearly tear, 

Trembling with fear 
On the pallid cheek of Even. 

And I thought of the myriad souls 
Gazing with human eyes 

On the light of that star, 

Shining afar, 
In the quiet evening skies ; 



13 



Some with winged hope, 

Clearing the cope 
Of heaven as swift as light, 

Others, with souls 

Blind as the moles, 
Sinking in rayless night. 

Dreams such as dreamers dream 

Flitted before our eyes ; 
Beautiful visions I — 
Angelo's, Titian's, 

Had never more gorgeous dyes : 
We soared with the angels 

Through vistas of glory, 
We heard the evangels 

Relate the glad story 

Of the beautiful star, 

Shining afar 

In the quiet evening skies. 

And we gazed and dreamed, 

Till our spirits seemed 

Absorbed in the stellar world ; 

Sorrow was swallowed up, 

Drained was the bitter cup 

Of earth to the very lees ; 

And we sailed over seas 

Of white vapour that whirled 
Through the skies afar, 

Angels our charioteers, 

Threading the endless spheres, 



14 PRELUDE. 

And to the chorus of angels 
Rehearsed the evangels 

The Birth of the Evening Star. 



Far back in the infant ages, 
Before the eras stamped their autographs 
Upon the stony records of the earth ; 
Before the burning incense of the sun 

Boiled up the interlucent space, 
Brightening the blank abyss ; 
Ere the Recording Angel's tears 
Were shed for man's transgressions : 
A Seraph, with a face of light, 
And hair like heaven's golden atmosphere, 
Blue eyes serene in their beatitude, 

Godlike in their tranquillity, 
Features as perfect as God's dearest work, 

And stature worthy of her race, 
Lived high exalted in the sacred sphere 
That floated in a sea of harmony 
Translucent as pure crystal, or the light 
That flowed, unceasing, from this higher world 
Unto the spheres beneath it. Far below 
The extremest regions underneath the Earth 
The first spheres rose, of vari-coloured light, 
In calm rotation through aerial deep, 
Like seas of jasper, blue, and coralline, 
Crystal and violet ; layers of worlds — 
The robes of ages that had passed away, 



15 



Left as memorials of their sojournings. 
For nothing passes wholly. All is changed. 
The Years but slumber in their sepulchres, 
And speak prophetic meanings in their sleep. 

FIRST ANGEL. 

Oh, how our souls are gladdened, 

When we think of that brave old age, 

When God's light came down 

From heaven, to crown 
Each act of the virgin page ! 

Oh, how our souls are saddened, 

At the deeds which were done since then. 
By the angel race 
In the holy place, 
And on earth by the sons of men ! 

Lo, as the years are fleeting, 

With their burden of toil and pain, 

We know that the page 

Of that primal age 
Will be opened up once again. 



Progressing still, the bright-faced Seraph rose 
From Goodness to Perfection, till she stood 
The fairest and the best of all that waked 
The tuneful echoes of that lofty world, 
Where Lucifer, then the stateliest of the throng 
Of Angels, walked majestical, arrayed 



16 PRELUDE. 

In robes of brightness worthy of bis place. 
And all the intermediate spheres were homes 

Of the existences 

Of spiritual life. 
Love, the divine arcanum, was the bond 
That linked them to each other — heart to heart, 
And angel world to world, and soul to soul. 

Thus the first ages passed, 

Cycles of perfect bliss, 
God the acknowledged sovereign of all. 
Sphere spake with sphere, and love conversed with love, 
From the far centre to sublimest height, 
And down the deep, unfathomable space, 
To the remotest homes of angel-life, 
A viewless chain of being circling all, 
And linking every spirit to its God. 

ANGEL CHORUS. 

Spirits that never falter, 

Before God's altar 
Rehearse their paeans of unceasing praise ; 

Their theme the boundless love 

By which God rules above, 

Mysteriously engrafted 

On grace divine, and wafted 
Into every soul of man that disobeys. 

Not till the wondrous being 
Of the All-Seeing 
Is manifested to finite man, 

Can ye understand the love 



17 



By which G-od rules above, 
Evermore extending, 
In circles never-ending, 
To every atom in the universal plan. 

SECOND ANGEL. 

Oh, the love beyond computing 
Of the high and holy place ! 
The unseen bond 
Circling beyond 

The limits of time and space. 

Through earth and her world of beauty 
The heavenly links extend, 
Man feels its presence, 
Imbibes its essence, 
But cannot yet comprehend, 

THIRD ANGEL. 

But the days are fast approaching, 

When the Father of Love will send 
His interpreter 
From the highest sphere, 
That man fully may comprehend. 

III. 

Oh, truest Love, because the truest life ! 

Oh, blest existence, to exist with Love ! 

Oh, Love, without which all things else^must die 

The death that knows no waking unto life ! 

Oh, Jealousy that saps the heart of Love, 



18 HESPERUS. 

And rohs it of its tenderness divine ; 

And Pride, that tramples with its iron hoof 

Upon the flower of love, whose fragrant soul 

lExhales itself in sweetness as it dies ! 

A lofty spirit surfeited with Bliss ! 

A Prince of Angels cancelling all love, 

All due allegiance to his rightful Lord - 

Doing dishonour to his high estate • 

Turning the truth and wisdom which were his 

For ages of supreme felicity, 

To thirst for power, and hatred of his God, 

Who raised him to such vast preeminence ! 

SECOND ANGEL CHORUS. 

Woe, woe to the ransomed spirit, 

Once freed from the stain of sin, 
Whose pride increases 
Till all love ceases 

To nourish it from within ! 
Its doom is the darkened regions 
Where the rebel angel legions 
Live their long night of sorrow^; 
Where no expectant morrow, 

No mercy-tempered ray 

From the altar of to-day, 
Comes down through the gloom to Iborrow 
One drop from their cup of sorrow, 

Or lighten their cheerless way. 



19 



FIRST ANGEL. 

But blest be the gentle spirit 

"Whose lave is ever increased 
From its own pure soul, 
The illumined goal 
Where Love holds perpetual feast ! 

IV. 
Ingrate Angel, he, 
To purchase Hell, and at so vast a price] 
'Tis the old story of celestial strife — 
Rebellion in the palace-halls of Grod — 
False angels joining the insurgent ranks, 
Who suffered dire defeats, and fell at last 
From bliss supreme to darkness and despair. 
But they, the faithful dwellers in the spheres, 
Who kept their souls inviolate, to whom 
Heaven's love and truth were truly great rewards : 
For these the stars were sown throughout all space, 
As fit memorials of their faithfulness. 
The wretched lost were banished to the depths 
Beneath the lowest spheres. Earth barred the space 
Between them and the Faithful. Then the hills 
Rose bald and rugged o'er the wild abyss ; 
The waters found their places ; and the sun, 
The bright-haired warder of the golden morn, 
Parting the curtains of reposing night, 
Rung his first challenge to the dismal shades, 
That shrunk back, awed, into Cimmerean gloom ; 
And the young moon glode through the startled void 
With quiet beauty and majestic mien. 



20 



SECOND ANGEL. 



Slowly rose the dsedal Earth, 

Through the purple-hued abys 
Glowing like a gorgeous prism, 

Heaven exulting o'er its birth. 

Still the mighty wonder came, 

Through the jasper-coloured sphere, 
Ether-winged, and crystal-clear, 

Trembling to the loud acclaim. 

In a haze of golden rain, 

Up the heavens rolled the sun, 
Danae-like the earth was won, 

Else his love and light were vain- 

So the heart and soul of man 

Own the light and love of heaven ; 
Nothing yet in vain was given, 

Nature's is a perfect plan. 

Y. 

The glowing Seraph with the brow of light 
Was first among the Faithful. When the war 
Between heaven's rival armies fiercely waged, 
She bore the Will Divine from rank to rank, 
The chosen courier of Deity. 
Her presence cheered the combatants for Truth, 
And Victory stood up where'er she moved. 
And now, in gleaming robe of woven pearl, 
Emblazoned with devices of the stars, 
And legends of their glory yet to come, 



21 



The type of Beauty Intellectual, 

The representative of Love and Truth, 

She moves first in the innumerable throng 

Of angels congregating to behold 

The crowning wonder of creative power. 

THIRD ANGEL CHORUS. 

Oh, joy, that no mortal can fathom, 
To rejoice in the smile of God ! 
To be first in the light 
Of His Holy sight, 
And freed from His chastening rod. 
Faithful, indeed, that soul, to be 
The messenger of Deity ! 

FIRST ANGEL. 

This, this is the chosen spirit, • 
Whose love is ever increased 

From its own pure soul, 

The illumined goal 
Where Love holds perpetual feast. 

VI. 

With noiseless speed the angel charioteers 
In dazzling splendour all triumphant rode ; 
Through seas of ether painfully serene, 
That flashed a golden, phosphorescent spray, 
As luminous as the sun's intensest beams, 
Athwart the wide, interminable space. 
Legion on legion of the sons of Grod ; 
"Vast phalanxes of graceful cherubim ; 



22 HESPERUS. 

Innumerable multitudes and ranks 
Of all the hosts and hierarchs of heaven, 
Moved by one universal impulse, urged 
Their steeds of swiftness up the arch of light, 
From sphere to sphere increasing as they came, 
Till world on world was emptied of its race. 
Upward, with unimaginable speed, 
The myriads, congregating zenith-ward, 
Reached the far confines of the utmost sphere, 
The home of Truth, the dwelling-place of Love, 
Striking celestial symphonies divine 
From the resounding sea of melody, 
That heaved in swells of soft, mellifluous sound, 
To the blest crowds at whose triumphal tread 
Its soul of sweetness waked in thrills sublime. 
The sun stood poised upon the western verge ; 
The moon paused, waiting for the march of earth, 
That stayed to watch the advent of the stars ; 
And ocean hushed its very deepest deeps 
In grateful expectation. 

SECOND ANGEL. 

Still through the viewless regions 
Of the habitable air, 

Through the ether ocean, 
In unceasing motion, 
Pass the multitudinous legions 
Of angels everywhere. 

Bearing each new-born spirit 

Through the interlucent void 



2: 



To its starry dwelling ,. 
Angel anthems telling 
Every earthly deed of merit 
To each flashing asteroid.. 

THIRD ANGEL. 

Through the realms sidereal, 
Clothed with the immaterial,. 
Far as the fields elysiau 

In starry bloom extend,. 
The stretch of angel vision 

Can see and comprehend. 

VII. 

Innumerable as the ocean sands 
The angel concourse in due order stood^ 
In meek anticipation waiting for 
The new-created orbs-. 
Still hidden in the deep 

And unseen laboratory, where 
Not even angel eyes could penetrate r 
A star for each of that angelic- host, 
Memorials of their faithfulness and love. 
The Evening Star, God's bright eternal gift 
To the pure Seraph with the brow of light, 

And named for her, mild Hesperus, 
Came twinkling down the unencumbered blue, 
On viewless wings of sweet melodious sound, 
Beauty and grace presiding at its birth. 
Celestial plaudits sweeping through the skies 
Waked resonant paeans, till the concave thrilled 



24 HESPERUS. 

Through its illimitable bounds. 
With a sudden burst 
Of light, that lit the universal space 

As with a flame of crystal, 
Rousing the Soul of Joy 

That slumbered in the patient sea, 
From every point of heaven the hurrying cars 
Conveyed the constellations to their thrones — • 
The throbbing planets, and the burning suns, 
.Erratic comets, and the various grades 
And magnitudes of palpitating stars. 
From the far arctic and antarctic zones, 
Through all the vast, surrounding infinite, 
A wilderness of intermingling orbs, 
The gleaming wonders, pulsing earthward, came ; 
Each to its destined place, 
Each in itself a world, 

With all its coming myriad life, 
Drawing us nearer the Omnipotent, 
With hearts of wonder, and with souls of praise : 
Astrea, Pallas, strange Aldebaran, 
The Pleiads, Arcturus, the ruddy Mars, 
Pale Saturn, Ceres and Orion — 

All as they circle still 

Through the enraptured void. 
For each young angel born to us from earth, 
A new-made star is launched among its peers, 

FULL ANGEL CHORUS. 

Dreamer in the realms aerial, 
Searcher for the true and good, 



HESPERUS. 25 

Hoper for the high, ethereal 

Limit of Beatitude, 

Lift thy heart to heaven, for there 

Is embalmed thy spirit prayer : 

Not in words is shrined thy prayer, 

But thy Thought awaits thee there. 

God loves the silent worshipper. 

The grandest hymn 

That nature chants — the litany 

Of the rejoicing stars — is silent praise. 

Their nightly anthems stir 

The souls of lofty seraphim 

In the remotest heaven. The melody 

Descends in throbbings of celestial light 

Into the heart of man, whose upward gaze, 

And meditative aspect, tell 

Of the heart's incense passing up the night. 

Above the crystalline height 

The theme of thoughtful praise ascends. 

Not from the wildest swell 

Of the vexed ocean soars the fullest psalm ; 

But in the evening calm, 

And in the solemn midnight, silence blends 

With silence, and to the ear 

Attuned to harmony divine 

Begets a strain 

"Whose trance-like stillness wakes delicious pain. 

The silent tear 

Holds keener anguish in its orb of brine, 

Deeper and truer grief 

Than the loud wail that brings relief, 



26 



As thunder clears the atmosphere. 

But the deep, tearless Sorrow, — how profound ! 

Unspoken to the ear 

Of sense, 'tis yet as eloquent a sound 

As that which wakes the lyre 

Of the rejoicing Day,, when 

Morn on the mountains lights his urn of fire. 

The flowers of the glen 

Rejoice in silence ; huge pines stand apart 

Upon the lofty hills r and sigh 

Their woes to every breeze that passeth by ; 

The willow tells its mournful tale 

So tenderly, that e'en the passing gale 

Bears not a murmur on its wings 

Of what the spirit sings 

That breathes its trembling thoughts through all the 

drooping strings, 
He loves God most who worships most 
In the obedient heart. 
The thunder's noisome boast r 
"What is it to the violet lightning thought ? 
So with the burning passion of the stars — 
Creation's diamond sands r 
Strewn along the pearly strands,. 
And far-extending corridors 
Of heaven's blooming shores ; 
No scintil of their jewelled flame 
But wafts the exquisite essence 
Of prayer to the Eternal Presence, 
Of praise to the Eternal Name. 
The silent prayer unbars 



The gates oi Paradise; while the too-intimate, 
Self-righteous' boast, strikes rudely at the gate 
Of heaven, unknowing why it does not open to 
Their summons, as they see pale Silence pas 

through. 

vnr. 

In grateful admiration, till the Dawn 
Withdrew the gleaming curtains of the night, 

We watched the whirling systems, until each 
Could recognize their own peculiar star ; 

When, with the swift celerity 

Of Fancy-footed Thought, 
The light-caparisoned, aerial steeds r 

Shod with rare fleetness r 
Revisited the farthest of the spheres 
Ere the earth's sun had kissed the mountain tops, 
Or shook the sea-pearls from his locks of gold. 

Still on the Evening Star 
Gazed we with steadfast eyes, 
As it shone 
On its throne 
Afar, 
In the blue skies. 
No longer the charioteers 
Dashed through the gleaming spheres ; 
No more the evangels 

Rehearsed the glad story ; 
But, in passing, the angels 
Left footprints of glory : 



28 



HESPERUS. 



For up the starry void 
Brigh1>flashing asteroid, 
Pale moon and starry choir, 
Aided by Fancy's fire, 
Rung from the glittering lyre 
Changes of song and hymn, 
Worthy of Seraphim. 
Night's shepherdess sat, queenlike, on her throne, 
Watching her starry flocks from zone to zone, 
While we, like mortals turned to breathing stone, 
Intently pondered on the Known Unknown. 



29 



CROWNED. 

Her thoughts are sweet glimpses of heaven. 

Her life is that heaven brought down ; 
Oh, never to mortal was given 

So rare and bejewelled a crown ! 
I'll wear it as saints wear the glory 
That radiantly clasps them above — 
Oh, dower most fair ! 
Oh, diadem rare ! 
Bright crown of her maidenly love. 

My heart is a fane of devotion, 

My feelings are converts at prayer, 
And every thrill of emotion 

Makes dearer the crown I would wear. 
My soul in its fulness of rapture 
Begins its millennial reign, 
Life glows like a sun, 
Love's zenith is won, 
And Joy is sole monarch again. 

My noonday of life is as morning, 

God's light streams approvingly down ; 
Uncovered, I wait her adorning, 

She comes with the beautiful crown ! 
I'll wear it as saints wear the glory 
That radiantly clasps them above — 
Oh, dower most fair ! 
Oh, diadem rare ! 
Bright crown of her maidenly love. 



MARILINK 



At the wheel plied Mariline, 
Beauteous and self-serene, 
Never dreaming of that mien 
Eit for lady or for queen. 

Never sang she, but her words, 
Music-laden, swept ihe chords 

Of the heart, that eagerly 
Stored the subtle melody, 
Like the honey in the bee ; 
Never spake, but showed that she 

Held the golden master-key 
That unlocked all sympathy 

Pent in souls where Feeling glows, 
Like the perfume in the rose, 
Like her own innate repose, 
Like the whiteness in the snows. 

Richly thoughted Mariline ! 
Nature's heiress ! — nature's queen ! 

IL 

By her side, with liberal look, 
Paused a student o'er a book, 
Wielder of a shepherd's crook, 
Reveller by grove and brook : 



MARILINE. 

Hunter-up of musty tomes, 
Worshipper of deathless poems : 

Lover of the true and good, 
Hater of sin's evil brood, 
Votary of solitude, 
Man, of mind-like amplitude, 

With exalted eye serene 
Gazed he on fair Mariline. 

Swifter whirled the busy wheel, 
Piled the thread .upon the reel — 
Saw she not his spirit kneel, 
Praying for her after-weal ? 

Like the wife of Collatine, 
Busily spun Mariline. 



Hour =by hour, and day by day, 
Sang the maid her roundelay ; 
Hour by hour, and day by day, ( 
Spun her threads of white and gray. 

While the shepherd-student held 
Commune with :the great of eld : 

Pondered ^on their -wondrous words, 
While he watched his .scattered herds, 
While he stemmed the surging fords. 
And he knew the lore of birds, 



31 



32 MARILINE. 

Learned the secrets of the rills, 
Conversed with the answering hills. 

Like her threads of white and gray, 
Passed their mingled lives away, 
One unceasing roundelay- 
Winter came, it still was May ! 

IV. 

When the spring smiled, opening up 
Pink-lipped flower and acorn cup ; 

When the summer waked the rose 
In the scented briar boughs ; 
When the earth, with painless throes, 
Bore her golden autumn rows — 

Field on field of grain, that pressed, 
Childlike, to her fruitful breast- 
When hale winter wrapped his form 
In the mantle of the storm, 
Tamed the bird, and chilled the worm, 
Stopped the pulse that thrilled the germ ; 

As the seasons went and came, 
One in heart, and hope, and aim, 

Cheered they each the other on, 

Where was labor to be done, 

At day-break or set of sun, 

Like two thoughts that merge in one, 



33 



Dignified, and soul-serene, 
Busily spun Mariline. 

v. 

Brightly broke the summer morn, 
Like a lark from out the corn, — 
Broke like joy just newly born 
From the depths of woe forlorn, — 

Broke with grateful songs of birds, 
Lowings of well-pastured herds ; 

Hailed by childhood's happy looks, 
Cheered by anthems of the brooks- 
Chants beyond the lore of books — 
Cawing crows, instead of rooks. 

Glowed the heavens — rose the sun, 
Mariline was up, for one. 



Like a chatterer tongue-tied, 
Lo, the wheel is placed aside ! — 
Not from indolence or pride — 
Mariline must be a Bride ! 

Fairest maid of maids terrene ! 
Bride of Brides, dear Mariline ! 

VII. 
Up the meditative air 
Passed the smoke-wreaths, white and fair, 
Like the spirit of the prayer 
Mariline now offered there : 



34 MARILINE. 

Passed behind the cottage eaves, 
Curling through the maple leaves : 

Through the pines and old elm trees, 
Eelics of past centuries, 
Hardy oaks, that never breeze 
Humbled to their gnarly knees : 

Forest lords, beneath whose sheen 
Flowers bloomed for Mariline. 

Round the cottage, fresh and green. 
Climbed the vine, the scarlet bean, 
Morning-glories peeped between, 
Looking out for Mariline. 

Odours never felt before 
Tranced the locust at the door, 

Yieing with the mignonette 
Round the garden parapet, 
Whose rare fragrances were met 
By rich perfumes, rarer yet, 

Stealing from the garden walks, 
Sentineled with hollyhocks. 



What a heaven the cottage seemed ! 
Love's own temple, where Faith dreamed 
Of the coming years that beamed 
On them, as pale stars have gleamed 



MARILINE. 35 

Through unnavigated seas, 
To which the prophetic breeze 

Whispered of a future day. 
When swift fleets would urge their way, 
Through the waters cold and gray, 
Like the dolphins at their play. 

There the future Bride, and he, 
Prince of love's knight-errantry, 

Whose good shepherd arms must hold 
This pet yeanling of the fold, 
Grift of God so long foretold, 
Gift beyond the price of gold. 

There the parents, aged and hale, 
Passing down life's' autumn vale, 

With a joy as rare and true 
As their daughter's eye of blue. 
With such hopes as reach up to 
Heaven's gate, when, passing through, 

Peris, bound for higher skies. 
Win the Celestial Paradise. 



Thoughtfully stood Mariline, 
Whitely veiled, and soul-serene ; 
Love's fair world for her demesne. 
Never looked she more a queen — 



With her maidens by her side, 
Smiling on the coming bride. 

Her pet lamb, with comic mirth, 
Licked her hand and scampered forth ; 
The fine sheep-dog, on the hearth, 
Kindly eyed her for her worth. 



Up the air, across the moor, 
As they left the cottage door, 

Chimed the merry village-bells, 
Music-wrapt the neighbouring fells, 
Stirred the heart's awakened cells, 
Like fine strains from fairy dells. 

Past the orchard, down the lane, 
By fresh wavy fields of grain, 

By the brook, that told its love 
To the pasture, glen, and grove — 
Sacred haunts, that well could prove* 
Vows enregistered above. 

By the restless mill, where stood, 
Bowing in his amplest mood, 

The old miller, hat in hand, 
Rich in goodness, rich in land, 
On whose features, grave and bland. 
Glowed a blessing for the band. 



37 



Through the village, where, behind 
Many a half-uplifted blind, 

Eyes, that might have lit the skies 
Of Mahomet's Paradise, 
Flashed behind the eurtains' dyes, 
With a cheerful, half-surprise. 

Through the village, underneath, 
Many a blooming flower-wreath, 

Garlanding the arches green 
Reared in honour of the queen 
Of this day of days serene, 
Day of days to Mariline. 

To the church, whose cheering bells 
Told the tale in music-swells — 

Told it to the country wide, 
With an earnest kind of pride^ — - 
Something not to be denied — 
" Mariline must be a Bride !"' 



Up the aisle with solemn pace, 
Meeting God there, face to face. 

Never Bride more chaste or fair 
Stood before His altar there, 
Her ripe heart aflame with prayer, 
Blessing Him for all His care : 



38 



Every earthly promise given, 
Registered with joy in heaven. 

From the galleries looked down, 
Village belle and country clown, 
Men with honest labour brown, 
Far removed from mart or town : 

Smiling with a zealous pride 
On the shepherd and his bride — 

Playmates of their early days ; 
For their walks in wisdom's ways, 
Ever crowned with honoured bays 
Of esteem and ardent praise. 



Well done, servant of the Lord ! 
Grave expounder of His Word, 

Who in distant Galilee 

Graced the marriage feast, that He, 

With all due solemnity, 

Might commission such as thee 

To do likewise, and unite 

Souls like these in marriage plight. 

With what manly, gentle pride, 
The glad Shepherd clasps his Bride ! 
Love like theirs, so true and tried, 
Ever true love must abide ! 



MARILINE. 



XIII. 



Ye whose souls are strong and firm. 
In whom love's electric germ 

Has been fanned into a flame 
At the mention of a name ; 
Ye whose souls are still the same 
As when first the Victor came, 

Stinging every nerve to life, 
In the beatific strife, 

Till the man's divinest part 
Ruled triumphant in the heart, 
And, with shrinking, sudden start, 
The bleak old world stood apart, 

Periling the wild Ideal 

By the presence of the Real : 

Ye, and ye alone, can know 

How these twain souls burn and glow. 

Can interpret every throe 

Of the full heart's overflow, 

That imparts that light serene 
To the brow of Mariline, 



40 THE HAPPY HARVESTERS. 

THE HAPPY HARVESTERS. 
A CANTATA. 



Autumn, like an old poet in a haze 

Of golden visions, dreams away his days, 

So Hafiz-like that one may almost hear 

The singer's thoughts imbue the atmosphere ; 

Sweet as the dreamings of the nightingales 

Ere yet their songs have waked the eastern vales, 

Or stirred the airy echoes of the wood 

That haunt the forest's social solitude. 

His thoughts are pastorals ; his days are rife 

With the calm wisdom of that inner life 

That makes the poet heir to worlds unknown, 

All space his empire, and the sun his throne. 

As the bee stores the sweetness of the flowers, 

So into autumn's variegated hours 

Is hived the Hybla richness of the year ; 

Choice souls imbibing the ambrosial cheer, 

As autumn, seated on the highest hills, 

Gleans honied secrets from the passing rills ; 

While from below, the harvest canzonas 

Link vale to mountain with a chain of praise. 

Foremost among the honoured sons of toil 

Are they who overcome the stubborn soil ; 

Brave Cincinnatus in his country home 

Was even greater than when lord of Eome. 

Down sinks the sun behind the lofty pines 

That skirt the mountain, like the straggling lines 



THE HAPPY HARVESTERS. 41 

Of Ceres' army looking from the height 
On the dim lowlands deepening into night ; 
Soft-featured twilight, peering through the maze, 
Sees the first starbeam pierce the purple haze ; 
Through all the vales the vespers of the birds 
Cheer the young shepherds homeward with their 
And the stout axles of the heavy wain [herds ; 
Creak 'neath the fulness of the ripened grain, 
As the swarth builders of the precious load, 
Returning homewards, sing their Autumn Ode. 

AUTUMN ODE. 

God of the Harvest ! Thou, whose sun 

Has ripened all the golden grain, 
We bless Thee for Thy bounteous store, 
The cup of Plenty running o'er, 

The sunshine and the rain. 

The year laughs out for very joy, 

Its silver treble echoing 
Like a sweet anthem through the woods, 
Till mellowed by the solitudes 

It folds its glossy wing. 

But our united voices blend 

From day to day unweariedly; 
Sure as the sun rolls up the morn, 
Or twilight from the eve is born, 

Our song ascends to Thee, 



42 THE HAPPY HARVESTERS. 

Where'er the various-tinted woods, 

In all their autumn splendour dressed, 
Impart their gold and purple dyes 
To distant hills and farthest skies 
Along the crimson west : 

Across the smooth, extended plain, 

By rushing stream and broad lagoon, 
On shady height and sunny dale, 
Wherever scuds the balmy gale, 
Or gleams the autumn moon : 

From inland seas of yellow grain, 

Where cheerful Labour, heaven-blest, 

With willing hands and keen-edged scythe, 

And accents musically blythe, 
Reveals its lordly crest : 

From clover-fields and meadows wide, 
Where moves the richly-laden wain 

To barns well-stored with new-made hay, 

Or where the flail at early day 
Rolls out the ripened grain : 

From meads and pastures on the hills, 

And in the mountain valleys deep, 
Alive with beeves and sweet-breathed kine 
Of famous Ayr or Devon's line, 
And shepherd-guarded sheep : 



THE HAPPY HARVESTERS. 43 

The spirits of the golden year, 

From crystal caves and grottoes dim. 

From forest depths and mossy sward, 

Myriad-tongued, with one accord 
Peal forth their harvest hymn. 



Their daily labour in the happy fields 

A two-fold crop of grain and pleasure yields, 

While round their hearths, before their evening fires. 

Where comfort reigns, whence weariness retires, 

The level tracts, denuded of their grain, 

In calm dispute are bravely shorn again, 

Till some rough reaper, on a tide of song, 

Like a bold pirate, captivates the throng : 

A SONG FOR THE FLAIL. 

A song, a song for the good old Flail, 

And the brawny arms that wield it, 
Hearty and hale, in our yeoman mail, 
Like intrepid knights we'll shield it. 
We are old nature's peers, 
Right royal cavaliers ! 
Knights of the Plough ! for no Golden Fleece we sail, 
We're Princes in our own right — our sceptre is the Flail. 

A song, a song for the golden grain, 

As it wooes the flail's embraces, 
In wavy sheaves like a golden main, 

With its bright spray in our faces. 



44 THE HAPPY HARVESTERS. 

Mirth hastens at our call, 

Jovial hearts have we all ! 
Knights of the Plough ! for no Golden Fleece we sail, 
We're Princes in our own right — our sceptre is the Flail. 

A song, a song for the good old Flail, 
That our fathers used before us ; 
A song for the Flail^ and the faces hale 
Of the queenly dames that bore us ! 
We are old nature's peers, 
Right royal cavaliers ! 
Knights of the Plough ! for no Golden Fleece we sail, 
We're Princes in our own right — our sceptre is the Flail. 



Fair was the maid, and lovely as the morn 
From starry Night and rosy Twilight born, 
Within whose mind a rivulet of song 
Rehearsed the strains that from her lips ere long 
Welled free and sparkling, as the vocal woods 
Repeat the day-spring's sweetest interludes. 
Her gentle eyes' serenest depths of blue 
Shrined love and truth, and all their retinue ; 
The health and beauty of her youthful face 
Made it the Harem of each maiden grace ; 
And such perfection blended with her air, 
She seemed some stately Goddess moving there : 
Beholding her, you thought she might have been 
The long-lost, flower-loving Proserpine : 



THE HAPPY HARVESTERS. 45 

AN AUTUMN CHANGE. 

" Oh, dreamy autumn days ! 
I seek your faded ways, 
. As one who calmly strays 

Through visions of the past ; 
I walk the golden hours, 
And where I gathered flowers 
The stricken leaves in showers 
Are hurled upon the blast." 

Thus mused the lonely maid, 
As through the autumn glade, 
With pensive heart, she strayed, 

Regretting Love's delay ; 
In vain the traitor flies ! 
To pleading lips and eyes, 
Sweet looks, and tender sighs, 

He falls an easy prey. 

" Oh, dreamy autumn days ! 
I tread your bridal ways, 
As one who homeward strays, 

Through realms divinely fair ; 
I walk Love's radiant hours, 
Fragrant with passion flowers, 
And blessings fall like dowers 

Down the elysian air." 

Thus mused the maiden now, 
With sunny heart and brow, 
For Love had turned his prow 



46 THE HAPPY HARVESTERS, 

Towards the G-olden Isles, 
Where from Pierean springs 
The soul of Music sings 
Its sweet imaginings, 

Through all the Land of Smiles, 



Up the wide chimney rolls the social fire, 

Warming the hearts of matron, youth, and sire ; 

Painting such grotesque shadows on the wall, 

The stripling looms a giant stout and tall, 

While they whose statures reach the common height 

Seem spectres mocking the hilarious night. 

From hand to hand the ripened fruit went round, 

And rural sports a pleased acceptance found ; 

The youthful fiddler on his three-legged stool 

Fancied himself at least an Ole Bull ; 

Some easy bumpkin, seated on the floor, 

Hunted the slipper till his ribs were sore • 

Some chose the graceful waltz or lively reel, 

While deeper heads the chess battalions wheel. 

Till some old veteran, compelled to yield, 

More brave than skilful, vanquished, quits the field. 

As a flushed harper, when the doubtful fight 

Favors the prowess of some stately knight, 

In stirring numbers of triumphal song 

Upholds the spirits of the victor throng. 

A sturdy ploughboy, wedded to the soil, 

Thus sung the praises of the partner of his toil : 



THE HAPPY HARVESTERS. 47 

THE SOLDIERS OF THE PLOUGH. 

No maiden dream, nor fancy theme, 
Brown Labour's muse would sing ; 
Her stately mien and russet sheen 

Demand a stronger wing. 
Long ages since, the sage, the prince, 

The man of lordly brow, 
All honour gave that army brave. 
The Soldiers of the Plough. 

Kind heaven speed the Plough ! 
And bless the hands that guide it ; 
God gives the seed — 
The bread we need, 
Man's labour must provide it, 

In every land, the toiling hand 

Is blest as it deserves ; 
Not so the race who, in disgrace, 

Prom honest labour swerves. 
From fairest bowers bring rarest flowers, 

To deck the swarthy brow 
Of those whose toil improves the soil, 
The Soldiers of the Plough. 

Kind heaven speed the Plough ! 

And bless the hands that guide it ; 

God gives the seed — 

The bread we need, 

Man's labour must provide it. 



48 THE HAPPY HARVESTERS. 

Blest is his lot, in hall or cot, 

Who lives as nature wills, 
Who pours his corn from Ceres' horn, 

And quaffs his native rills ! 
No breeze that sweeps trade's stormy deeps, 

Can touch his golden prow ; 
Their foes are few, their lives are true, 
The Soldiers of the Plough. 

Kind heaven speed the Plough ! 
And bless the hands that guide it ; 
God gives the seed — 
The bread we need, 
Man's labour must provide it. 



Fast sped the rushing chariot of the Hours. 
Without, the Harvest Moon, through fleecy bowers 
Of hazy cloudlets, swept her graceful way, 
Proud as an empress on her marriage-day ; 
The admiring planets lit her stately march 
With smiles that gleamed along the silent arch, 
And all the starry midnight blazed with light, 
As if 'twere earth and heaven's nuptial-night ; 
The cock crowed, certain that the day had broke, 
The aged house-dog suddenly awoke, 
And bayed so loud a challenge to the moon, 
From the old orchard fled the thievish 'coon : 
Within, the lightest hearts that ever beat 
Still found their harmless pleasures pure and sweet ; 
The fire still burned on the capacious hearth, 
In sympathy with the redundant mirth ; 



THE HAPPY HARVESTERS. 49 

Old graybeards felt the glow of youth revive, 
Old matrons smiled upon the human hive, 
Where life's rare nectar, fit for gods to sip, 
In forfeit kisses passed from lip to lip. 
Be hushed rude Mirth ! as merry as the May 
Is she who comes to sing her roundelay : 



Whither now, blushing Claire ? 
Maid of the sylph-like air, 
Blooming and debonair, 

Whither so early ? 
Chasing the merry morn, 
Down through the golden corn ? 
List'ning the hunter's horn 

Ring through the barley ? 

" Flowerets fresh and fair," 
Answered the blushing Claire, 
" Fit for my bridal hair, 

Bloom 'mongst the barley ; 
Hark ! 'tis the hunter's horn, 
Waking the sylvan morn, 
And through the yellow corn 

Comes my brave Charlie." 

Through the dew-dripping grain 
Pressed the heart^stricken swain, 
Crushed with a weight of pain, 



50 THE HAPPY HARVESTERS. 

Drooped like the barley ; 
All ! timid shepherd boy ! 
Man's love should ne'er be coy, 
Sweet is Claire's maiden joy, 

Kissing her Charlie ! 



A pleasant soul as ever trilled a song 

Was hers who warbled " Claire." All the day long 

Her voice was ringing like a bridal bell ; 

Gladness and joy leaped up at every swell ; 

And love was deeper, warmer, for the tone 

That clasped the heart like an enchanted zone. 

A youth was there more comely than the rest ; 

One who could turn a furrow with the best, 

Compete for manly strength and portly air, 

Or wield a scythe with any reaper there. 

The spirit of her voice had moved above 

The waters of his soul, and waked his song to Love : 



" Come tell me, merry Brooklet, of a gentle Maid I seek, 
Thou'lt know her by the freshness of the rose upon her 

cheek ; 
Her eyes are chaste and tender, and so serenely bright, 
You can read her heart's pure secrets by their warm 

religious light." 



THE HAPPY HARVESTERS. 51 

<: The Maid has not come hither/' said the Brooklet in 

reply ; 
*•' I've listened for her footfall ere the stars were in the 

sky; 
The Fountain has been singing of a Maid, with eyes so 

bright 
You may read the cherished secrets of her bosom by 

their light." 

" Pray tell me, merry Brooklet, what saith her thoughts 

of one 
Who wronged her loving nature ere the setting of the 

sun ? 
What say they of yon autumn moon that smiles so 

mournfully 
On the slowly-dying season, and the blasted moorland 

tree ?" 

" She sitteth by the Fountain," the Brook replied again, 
" Her heart as pure as heaven, and her thoughts without 

a stain ; 
' Oh, fickle moon, and changeful man !' she saith, l a year 

ago 
All the paths were true-love-lighted where I'm gropino- 

now in woe.' 

" She sitteth by the Fountain, the gentle mists arise 
And kiss away the tear-pearls that tremble in her eyes • 
The Fountain singeth to me that the Maiden in her 

dream 
Shrinks as the vapours claim her as the Oread of the 

stream." 



52 THE HAPPY HARVESTERS. 

Off sped the merry Streamlet adown the sloping vale ; 
The Shepherd seeks the Fountain, where sits the 

Maiden pale ; 
And to the wandering Brooklet, through many a lonely 

wild, 
The burden of the Fountain was, that Love was 

reconciled. 



But soon the Morn, on many a distant height, 

Fingers the raven locks of lingering Night ; 

The last dark shadows that precede the day 

Have stripped the splendour from the Milky Way ; 

And Nature seems disturbed by fitful dreams, 

As one who shudders when the owlet screams ; 

The painful burden of the Whippoorwill, 

Like a vague Sorrow, floats from hill to hill ; 

Along the vales the doleful accents run, 

Where the white vapours dread the burning sun ; 

While human* voices stir the haunted air, 

One sings " the Plough," another warbles " Claire :" 

The Happy Harvesters, a lightsome throng, 

Dispersing homewards, prove the excellence of Song. 



FALLS OF THE CHAUDIERE. 53 



THE FALLS OF THE CHAUDIERE, OTTAWA. 

I have laid my cheek to Nature's, placed my puny hand 
in hers, 
Felt a kindred spirit warming all the life-blood of my 
face, 
Moved amid the very foremost of her truest worshippers, 
Studying each curve of beauty, marking every minute 
grace ; 
Loved not less the mountain cedar than the flowers at 
its feet, 
Looking skyward from the valley, open-lipped as if in 
prayer, 
Felt a pleasure in the brooklet singing of its wild 
retreat, 
But I knelt before the splendour of the thunderous 
Chaudiere. 

All my manhood waked within me, every nerve had 
tenfold force, 
And my soul stood up rejoicing, looking on with 
cheerful eyes, 
Watching the resistless waters speeding on their down- 
ward course, 
Titan strength and queenly beauty diademed with 
rainbow dyes. 
Eye and ear, with spirit quickened, mingled with the 
lovely strife, 
Saw the living Genius shrined within her sanctuary 
fair, 



54 FALLS OP THE CHAUDIERE. 

Heard her voice of sweetness singing, peered into her 
hidden life, 
And discerned the tuneful secret of the jubilant Chau- 
diere : 

" Within my pearl-roofed shell, 
Whose floor is woven with the iris bright, 
Genius and Queen of the Chaudiere I dwell. 
As in a world of immaterial light. 

My throne, an ancient rock, 
Marked by the feet of ages long-departed, 
My joy, the cataract's stupendous shock, 
Whose roll is music to the grateful-hearted. 

I've seen the eras glide 
With muffled tread to their eternal dreams, 
While I have lived in vale and mountain side, 
With leaping torrents and sweet purling streams. 

The Red-Man's active life ; 
His love, pride, passions, courage, and great deeds ; 
His perfect freedom, and his thirst for strife ; 
His swift revenge, at which the memory bleeds : 

The sanguinary years, 
When sullen Terror, like a raging Fate, 
Swept down the stately tribes like slaughtered deers, 
And war and hatred joined to decimate 

The remnants of the race, 
And spread decay through centuries of pain — 
No more I mark their sure, avenging pace, 
And forests wave where war-whoops shook the plain. 



FALLS OF THE CHAUDIERE. 55 

Their deeds I envied not. 
The royal tyrant on his purple throne, 
I, in secluded grove or shady grot, 
Had purer joys than he had ever known. 

God made the ancient hills, 
The valleys and the solemn wildernesses, 
The merry-hearted and melodious rills, 
And strung with diamond dews the pine-trees' tresses ; 

But man's hand built the palace, 
And he that reigns therein is simply man ; 
Man turns God's gifts to poison in the chalice 
That brimmed with nectar in the primal plan. 

Here I abide alone — 
The wild Chaudiere's eternal jubilee 
Has such sweet divination in its tone, 
And utters nature's truest prophecy 

In thunderings of zeal ! 
I've seen the Atheist in terror start, 
Awed to contrition by the strong appeal 
That waked conviction in his doubting heart : 

' Teachers speak throughout all nature, 

From the womb of Silence born, 
Heed ye not their words, Scoffer ? 

Flinging back thy scorn with scorn ! 
To the desert spring that leapeth, 

Pulsing, from the parched sod, 
Points the famished trav'ler, saying — 

' Brothers, here, indeed, is God !' 



56 FALLS OF THE CHAUDIERE. 

From the patriarchal fountains, 

Sending forth their tribes of rills, 
From the cedar-shadowed lakelets 

In the hearts of distant hills, 
Whispers softer than the moonbeams 

Wisdom's gentle heart have awed, 
Till its lips approved the cadence— 

1 Surely here, indeed, is G-od !' 

Lo ! o'er all, the Torrent Prophet, 

An inspired Demosthenes, 
To the Doubter's soul appealing, 

Louder than the preacher-seas : 
Dreamer ! wouldst have nature spurn thee 

For a dumb, insensate clod ? 
Dare to doubt ! and these shall teach thee 

Of a truth there lives a God !' 

By day and night, for hours, 
I watch the cataract's impulsive leap, 
Refreshed and gladdened by the cheering showers 
Wrung from the passion of the seething deep. 

Pleased when the buried waves 
Emerge again, like incorporeal hosts 
Rising, white-sheeted, from their gloomy graves, 
As if the depths had yielded up their ghosts. 

And when the midnight storm 
Enfolds the welkin in its robe of clouds, 
Through the dim vapours of the cauldron swarm 
The sheeted spectres in their whitest shrouds, 



PALLS OP THE CHAUDIERE. 57 

By the lightning's flash betrayed. 
These gather from the insubstantial vapour 
The lunar rainbows, which by them are made — 
Woven with moonbeams by some starry taper, 

To decorate the halls 
Of my fair palace, whence I'm pained to see 
Thy human brethren watch the waterfalls — 
Not with such rev'rence as I've found in thee : 

Too many with an eye 
To speculation and the worldling's dreams ; 
Others, who seek from nature no reply, 
Nor read the oral language of the streams. 

But of the few who loved 
The beautiful with grateful heart and soul, 
Who looked on nature fondly, and were moved 
By one sweet glance, as by the mighty whole : 

Of these, the thoughtful few, 
Thou wert the first to seek the inner temple, 
And stand before the Priestess. Thou wert true 
To nature and thyself. Be thy example 

The harbinger of times 
When the Chaudiere's imposing majesty 
Will awe the spirits of the heartless mimes 
To worship God in truth, with nature's constancy." 



58 FALLS OF THE CHATTDIERE. 

Still I heard the mellow sweetness of her voice at inter- 
vals, 
Mingling with the fall of waters, rising with the 
snowy spray, 
Ringing through the sportive current like the joy of 
waterfalls, 
Sending up their hearty vespers at the calniy close of 
day. 
Loath to leave the scene of beauty, lover-like I stayed, 
and stayed, 
Folding to my eager bosom memories beyond com- 
pare ; 
Deeper, stronger, more enduring than my dreams of wood 
and glade, 
Were the eloquent appeals of the magnificent Chau- 
diere. 

E'en the solid bridge is trembling, whence I look my 
last farewell, 
Dizzy with the roar and trampling of the mighty 
herd of waves, 
Speeding past the rocky Island, steadfast as a sentinel, 
Towards the loveliest bay that ever mirrored the 
Algonquin Braves. 
Soul of Beauty ! Genius ! Spirit ! Priestess of the lovely 
strife ! 
In my heart thy words are shrined, as in a sanctuary 
fair ; 
Echoes of thy voice of sweetness, rousing all my better 
life, 
Ever haunt my wildest visions of the jubilant Chau- 
diere. 



A ROYAL WELCOME. 59 



A ROYAL WELCOME. 

By England's side we stand, 

We grasp her royal hand, 
And pay her rightful homage through her Son : 

Thank God for England's care ! 

Thank God for Britain's heir ! 
Our hearts go forth to meet him — we are one. 

A loyal Province pours 

Her thousands to her shores, 
From iron-girt Superior to the sea ; 

We feel our youthful blood 

Surge through us like a flood, 
There's not a slave amongst us — we are free. 

For none but Freemen know 

The truly loyal throe 
That gives heroic impulse to the Man — 

The passion and the fire, 

The chivalrous desire : 
Our Fathers all were heroes — in the van. 

And we, their ardent sons, 

Through whom, triumphant, runs 
The old intrepid attribute serene, 

Would leave our chosen land, 

Our homes, our forests grand, 
To strike for England's honour and her Queen. 



60 A ROYAL WELCOME. 

No soulless welcome we 

Dare give to such as thee : 
Be thou a bright example to the world ; 

Great in thy well-earned fame, 

Beloved in heart and name, 
Wherever Britain's banner is unfurled. 

Through all our leafy glades, 

Through all our green arcades, 
The living torrents, sweeping in, evince 

That from their manly hearts 

The Yeoman chorus starts : 
1 Honour to England's Heir ! — long live the Prince !' 

Oh, England ! in this hour 

We own thy sov'reign pow'r ; 
To thee and thine our best affections cling ; 

And when thy crown is laid 

On Royal Albert's head, 
With heart and soul we'll shout— God Save the.. 
King! 



61 



MALCOLM. 

Boy ! this world, has ever been 
A bright, glad world to me ; 

Through each dark and checkered scene 
God's sun shone lovingly. 

But Content I've never known ; 
Hoping, trusting that the years, 
With their April smiles and tears, 
Would yet bring me one like thee 
That I could call my own. 

With thy soft and heavenly eyes 
In deep and pensive calm, 

I seem looking at the skies, 
And wonder where I am ! 

Something more than princely blood 
Courses in thy tranquil face : 
When she lent thee such a grace, 
Nature lit life's earnest flame 
In her most queenly mood. 

Such a sweet intelligence 

Is stamped on every line, 
Banqueting our craving sense 

With minist'rings divine. 
If thy Boyhood be so great, 

What will be the coming Man, 

Could we overleap the span ? 

Are there treasures in the mine, 
To pay us, if we wait ? 



62 



Doth the voice of Music live 

In that majestic brain, 
Waiting for the Hand to give 

Expression to the strain ? 
Are there wells of Truth — pure, deep, 

Where the patient diver, Thought, 

Finds the pearl that has been sought 

Many a weary age in vain, 
Entrusted to thy keep. 

Doth the fire of Genius burn 

Within that ample brow ? 
Or some patient spirit yearn 

For things that are not now ? 
Hidden in the over-soul 

Of the Future, to be born 

When the world has ceased its scorn, 

When the sceptic's heart will bow 
To the divine control. 

Patiently we'll watch and hope, 

And wait, alternately ; 
Trusting that, when time shall ope 

The casket's mystery, 
We will be made rich indeed 

With the wonders it contains : 
Rich beyond all previous gains ; 

Richer for thy thought and thee, 
Beyond our greatest meed. 






THE COMET. 63 



THE COMET— OCTOBER, 1858. 

Erratic Soul of some great Purpose, doomed 
To track the wild illimitable space, 
Till sure propitiation has been made 
For the divine commission unperformed ! 
What was thy crime ? Ahasuerus' curse 
Were not more stern on earth than thine in Heaven ! 

Art thou the Spirit of some Angel World, 
For grave rebellion banished from thy peers, 
Compelled to watch the calm, immortal stars, 
Circling in rapture the celestial void, 
While the avenger follows in thy train 
To spur thee on to wretchedness eterne ? 

Or one of nature's wildest fantasies, 
From which she flies in terror so profound, 
And with such whirl of torment in her breast, 
That mighty earthquakes yearn where'er she treads ; 
While War makes red its terrible right hand, 
And Famine stalks abroad all lean and wan ? 

To us thou art as exquisitely fair 
As the ideal visions of the seer, 
Or gentlest fancy that e'er floated down 
Imagination's bright, unruffled stream, 
Wedding the thought that was too deep for words 
To the low breathings of inspired song. 



64 THE COMET. 

When the stars sang together o'er the birth 
Of the poor Babe at Bethlehem, that lay- 
In the coarse manger at the crowded Inn, 
Didst thou, perhaps a bright exalted star, 
Refuse to swell the grand, harmonious lay, 
Jealous as Herod of the birth divine ? 

Or when the crown of thorns on Calvary 
Pierced the Redeemer's brow, didst thou disdain 
To weep, when all the planetary worlds 
Were blinded by the fulness of their tears ? 
E'en to the naming sun, that hid his face 
At the loud cry, " Lama Sabachthani !" 

No rest ! No rest ! the very damned have that 
In the dark councils of remotest Hell, 
Where the dread scheme was perfected that sealed 
Thy disobedience and accruing doom. 
Like Adam's sons, hast thou, too, forfeited 
The blest repose that never pillowed Sin ? 

No ! none can tell thy fate, thou wandering 
Sphinx ! 
Pale Science, searching by the midnight lamp 
Through the vexed mazes of the human brain, 
Still fails to read the secret of its soul 
As the superb enigma flashes by, 
A loosed Prometheus burning with disdain. 



AUTUMN. 

If seasons, like the human race, had souls, 

Then two artistic spirits live within 

The Chameleon mind of Autumn — these, 

The Poet's mentor and the Painter's guide. 

The myriad-thoughted phases of the mind 

Are truly represented by the hues 

That thrill the forests with prophetic fire. 

And what could painter's skill compared to these ? 

What palette ever held the flaming tints 

That on these leafy hieroglyphs foretell 

How set the ebbing currents of the year ? 

What poet's page was ever like to this, 

Or told the lesson of life's waning days 

More forcibly, with more of natural truth, 

Than yon red maples, or these poplars, white 

As the pale shroud that wraps some human corse ? 

And then, again, the spirit of a King, 

Clothed with that majesty most monarchs lack, 

Might fit old Autumn for his royal rule : 

For here is kingly ermine, cloth of gold, 

And purple robes well worthy to be worn 

By the best monarch that e'er donned a crown. 

Proclaim him Royal Autumn ! Poet King ! 
The Laureate of the Seasons, whose rare songs 
Are such as lyrist never hoped to fling 
On the fine ear of an admiring world. 
Autumn, the Poet, Painter, and true King ! 
His gorgeous Ideality speaks forth 



66 AUTUMN. 

From the rare colors of the changing leaves j 

And the ripe blood that swells his purple veins 

Is as the glowing of a sacred fire. 

He walks with Shelley's spirit on the cliffs 

Of the Ethereal Caucasus, and o'er 

The summits of the Euganean hills ; 

And meets the soul of Wordsworth, in profound 

And philosophic meditation, rapt 

In some great dream of love towards 

The human race. The cheery Spring may come, 

And touch the dreaming flowers into life, 

Summer expand her leafy sea of green, 

And wake the joyful wilderness to song, 

As a fair hand strikes music from a lyre : 

But Autumn, from its daybreak to its close, 

Setting in florid beauty, like the sun, 

Robed with rare brightness and ethereal flame, 

Holds all the year's ripe fruitage in its hands, 

And dies with songs of praise upon its lips. 

And then, the Indian Summer, bland as June : 

Some Tuscarora King, Algonquin Seer, 

Or Huron Chief, returned to smoke the Pipe 

Of Peace upon the ancient hunting grounds ; 

The mighty shade in spirit walking forth 

To feel the beauty of his native woods, 

Flashing in Autumn vestures, or to mark 

The scanty remnants of the scattered tribes 

Wending towards their graves. Few Braves are left ; 

Few mighty Hunters ; fewer stately Chiefs, 

Like great Tecumseth fit to take the field, 

And lead the tribes to certain victory, 



AUTUMN. 67 

Choosing annihilation to defeat : 

But having run the gauntlet of their days, 

This Autumn remnant of some unknown race, 

Nearing the Winter of their sad decay, 

Fall like dry leaves into the lap of Time ; 

Their old trunks sapless, their tough branches bare 

And Fate's shrill war-whoop thund'ring at their heels. 



68 



COLIN. 

Who'll dive for the dead men now. 

Since Colin is gone ? 
Who'll feel for the anguished brow, 

Since Colin is gone ? 
True Feeling is not confined 
To the learned or lordly mind ; 
Nor can it be bought and sold 
In exchange for an Alp of gold ; 
For Nature, that never lies, 
Flings back with indignant scorn 
The counterfeit deed, still-born, 
In the face of the seeming wise, 
In the Janus face of the huckster race 
Who barter her truths for lies. 

Who'll wrestle with dangers dire, 

Since Colin is gone ? 
Who'll fearlessly brave the maniac wave, 
Thoughtless of self, human life to save, 
Unmoved by the storm-fiend's ire ? 
Who, Shadrach-like, will walk through fire, 

Since Colin is gone ? 
Or hang his life on so frail a breath 
That there's but a step 'twixt life and death ? 
For Courage is not the heritage 
Of the nobly born ; and many a sage 
Has climbed to the temple of fame, 
And written his deathless name 
In letters of golden flame, 
Who, on glancing down 



69 



From his high renown, 

Saw his unlettered sire 

Still by the old log fire, 

Saw the unpolished dame — 

And the dunghill from which he came. 

Ah, ye who judge the dead 

By the outward lives they led, 

And not by the hidden worth 

Which none but God can see ; 

Ye who would spurn the earth 

That covers such as he ; 

Would ye but bare your hearts, 

Cease to play borrowed parts, 

And come down from your self-built throne : 

How few from their house of glass, 

As the gibbering secrets pass, 

Would dare to fling, whether serf or king, 

The first accusing stone ! 

Peace, peace to his harmless dust ! 

Since Colin is gone ; 
We can but hope and trust ; 
Man judgeth, but God is just ; 

Poor Colin is gone ! 
Had he faults ? His heart was true, 
And warm as the summer's sun. 
Had he failings ? Ay, but few ; 
'Twas an honest race he run. 
Let him rest in the poor man's grave, 
Ye who grant him no higher goal ; 
There may be a curse on the hands that gave, 
But not on his simple soul ! 



70 MARGERY. 

MARGERY. 

" Truth lights our minds as sunrise lights the world. 

The heart that shuts out truth, excludes the light 

That wakes the love of beauty in the soul ; 

And being foe to these, despises God, 

The sole Dispenser of the gracious bliss 

That brings us nearer the celestial gate. 

They who might feed on rose-leaves of the True, 

And grow in loveliness of heart and soul, 

Catch at Deception's airy gossamers, 

As children clutch at stars. To some, the world 

Is a bleak desert, parched with blinding sand, 

With here and there a mirage, fair to view, 

But insubstantial as the visions born 

Of Folly and Despair. Could we but know 

How nigh we are to the true light of heaven ; 

In what a world of love we live and breathe ; 

On what a tide of truth our souls are borne ! 

Yet we're but bubbles in the whirl of life, 

Mere flecks upon its ever-restless sea, 

Meteors in its ever-changing sky. 

Eternity alone is worth the thought 

That we expend upon the passing hour, 

Chasing the gaudy butterflies that Jure 

Our footsteps from the path that leads us home. 

We will not see the beacon on the rock ; 

The prompter is unheeded ; and the spark 

Of the true spirit quenched in utter night, 

As we rush headlong, wrecked on Error's shoals. 

Some hearts will never open ; all their wards 



71 



Have grown so rusty, that the golden key 
Of Love Divine must fail to move the bolt 
That Self has drawn to keep God's angels out." 

So spake the merry Margery, the while 

Her fingers lengthened out a filigree, 

That seemed to me so many golden threads 

Of thought between her fingers and her brain, 

Bestrung with priceless pearls ; her lightsome mood, 

Worn as occasion might necessitate, 

Eeplaced to-night by sober-sided Sense, 

That made her beauty like an eve in June, 

Just as the moon is risen. I, to mark 

My approbation of her present mood, 

Rehearsed a rambling lyric of my own, 

That seemed prophetic of her thoughts to-night : 

Within my mind there ever lives 

A yearning for the True, 
The Beautiful and Good. God gives 

These, as He gives the dew 

That falls upon the flowers at night, 

The grass, the thirsty trees, 
Because 'tis needful ; and the light 

That suns my mind from these — 

Truth— Beauty— Goodness, doth but fill 

A void within my soul ; 
And I fall prone before the Will 

Of Him who gave the whole — 



72 



The wondrous life— the power to think, 

And love, and act, and speak. 
Standing, half-poised, upon the brink 

Of being — strong, yet weak — 

Strong in vast hopes, but weak in deeds, 

I lift my heart and pray, 
That where the tangled skein of creeds 

Excludes the light of day 

From human minds, Grod's purposes 

May be made plain, that all 
May walk in truth's and wisdom's ways, 

And lay aside the thrall 

Of enmity, whose clouds have kept 

Their souls as dark as night ; 
That they whose love and hope have slept, 

May come into the light, 

And live as men, with minds to grasp 
Within the sphere of thought 

The boundless universe, and clasp 
The good the wise have sought, 

As if it were a long-lost dove, 

Or a stray soul returned 
To worship in the fane of love, 

That it so long had spurned. 

Where'er I gaze, my eyes behold 

Nought but the beautiful. 
The world is grand as it is old ; 

The only fitting school 



73 



For man, where lie may learn to live, 

And live to learn that what 
He needs heaven will in mercy give. 

Whatever be his lot. 

He shapes it for himself; his mind 

Is his own heaven or hell : 
Just as he peoples it, he'll find 

Himself compelled to dwell 

With good or evil. Good abounds 

In this delightful sphere ; 
But man will walk his daily rounds, 

And evermore give ear 

To the false promptings that waylay 

His steps at every turn ; 
Flinging the true and good away 

For joys that he should spurn, 

As being all unworthy of 

His greatness as a man. 
Why, man ! — why tremble at the scoff 

Of fools and bigots ? Scan 

The mental firmament, and see 

How men in every age, 
Who strove for immortality — 

Whose errand was to wage 

Not War, but Peace— men of pure minds, 
Who sought and found the truth, 

And treasured it, as one who finds 
The secret of lost Youth 



74 



Restored and made immortal — see 
How they were scorned, because 

Their Sphinx-lives spake of mystery 
To those to whom the laws 

Of nature are as clasped books ! — 

Poets, who ruled the world 
Of Thought ; in whose prophetic looks 

And minds there lay impearled, 

But hidden from the vulgar sight, 

Such universal truths, 
That many, blinded by the light — 

Gray-haired, green-gosling youths, 

With whips of satire, looks of scorn, 

And finger of disdain, 
Have crushed these harbingers of morn, 

But could not kill the strain 

That was a part of nature's mind, 

And therefore can not die. 
That which men spurned, angels have shrined 

Among God's truths on high. 

And so 't will ever be, till man 
Knows more of Goodness, Truth, 

And Beauty — more of nature's plan, 
And Love that brings back youth 

To hearts that have grown frail and old 

By groping in the dark 
With blinded eyes ; their idol, Gold, 

And Gain, their Pleasure-bark ! 



MARGERY. 75 

" 'Tis well that nature hath her ministers," 
She said, her voice and looks so passing sweet ; 
" Great-hearts that let in love, and keep it there, 
Like the true flame within the diamond's heart, 
Informing, blessing, chastening their lives. 
Man has but one great love — his love for God ; 
All other loves are lesser and more less 
As they recede from Him, as are the streams 
The farthest from the fountain. God is Love. 
Who loves God most, loves most his fellow-men ; 
Sees the Creator in the creature's form 
Where others see but man — and he, so frail 
The very devils are akin to him ! 
There is no light that is not born of love ; 
No truth where love is not its guiding star ; 
Faith without love is noonday without sun, 
For love begetteth works both good and true, 
And these give faith its immortality." 

We parted at the outer door. The stars 
Seemed never half so bright or numberless 
As they appeared to-night. Margery's laugh 
Tripped after me in merry cadences, 
Like the quick steps of fairies in the air 
United to the chorus of their hearts 
Breathed into silvery music. Happy soul ! 
Nature's epitome in all her moods. 



76 



EVA. 



EVA. 

" God bless the darling Eva !" was my prayer. 
A pure, unconscious depth of earnestness 
Was in her eyes, so indescribable 
You might as well the color of the air 
Seek to daguerreotype, or to impress 
A stain upon the river, whose first swell 
Would swirl it to the deep. A calm, sweet soul, 
Where Love's celestial saints and ministers 
Did hold the earthly under such control 
Virtue sprung up like daisies from the sod. 
Oh, for one hour's sweet excellence like hers ! 
One hour of sinlessness, that never more 
Can visit me this side the Silent Shore, 
To stand, like her, serene, unblushing before God ! 



the poet's recompense. 77 



THE POET'S RECOMPENSE. 

His heart's a burning censer, filled with spice 
From fairer vales than those of Araby, 
Breathing such prayers to heaven, that the nice 
Discriminating ear of Deity 
Can cull sweet praises from the rare perfume. 
Man cannot know what starry lights illume 
The soaring spirit of his brother man ! 
He judges harshly with his mind's eyes closed ; 
His loftiest understanding cannot scan 
The heights where Poet-souls have oft reposed ; 
He cannot feel the chastened influence 
Divine, that lights the Ideal atmosphere, 
And never to his uninspired sense 
Rolls the majestic hymn that inspirates the Seei\ 



78 THE WINE OP SONG. 

THE WINE OF SONG. 

Within Fancy's Halls I sit, and quaff 
Rich draughts of the Wine of Song j 
And I drink, and drink, 
To the very brink 
Of delirium wild and strong, 
Till I lose all sense of the outer world, 
And see not the human throng. 

The lyral chords of each rising thought 
Are swept by a hand unseen ; 
And I glide, and glide, 
With my music bride, 
Where few spiritless souls have been ; 
And I soar afar on wings of sound, 
With my fair iEolian Queen. 

Deep, deeper still, from the springs of Thought 
I quaff, till the fount is dry j 
And I climb, and climb, 
To a height sublime, 
Up the stars of some lyric sky, 
Where I seem to rise upon airs that melt 
Into song as they pass by. 

Millennial rounds of bliss I live, 
Withdrawn from my cumbrous clay, 
As I sweep, and sweep, 
Through infinite deep 
On deep of that starry spray; 
Myself a sound on its world-wide round, 
A tone on its spheral way. 



THE WINE OF SONG. 79 

And wheresoe'er through the wondrous space 

My soul wings its noiseless flight, 

On their astral rounds 

Float divinest sounds, 

Unseen, save by spirit-sight, 

Obeying some wise, eternal law, 

As fixed as the law of light. 

But, oh, when my cup of dainty bliss 
Is drained of the Wine of Song, 
How I fall, and fall, 
At the sober call 
Of the body, that waiteth long 
To hurry me back to its cares terrene, 
And earth's spiritless human throng. 



80 THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM. 



THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM. 

I stood upon the Plain, 
That had trembled when the slain, 
Hurled their proud, defiant curses at the battle-heated 
foe, 
When the steed dashed right and left, 
Through the bloody gaps he cleft, 
When the bridle-rein was broken, and the rider was 
laid low. 

What busy feet had trod 
Upon the very sod 
Where I marshalled the battalions of my fancy to my 
aid! 
And I saw the combat dire, 
Heard the quick, incessant fire, 
And the cannons' echoes startling the reverberating 
glade. 

I saw them, one and all, 

The banners of the Gaul 
In the thickest of the contest, round the resolute Mont- 
calm; 

The well-attended Wolfe, 

Emerging from the gulf 
Of the battle's fiery furnace, like the swelling of a 



THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM. 81 

I heard the chorus dire, 
That jarred along the lyre 
On which the hymn of battle rung, like surgings of the 
wave 
When the storm, at blackest night, 
"Wakes the ocean in affright, 
As it shouts its mighty pibroch o'er some shipwrecked 
vessel's grave. 

I saw the broad claymore 
Flash from its scabbard, o'er 
The ranks that quailed and shuddered at the close and 
fierce attack ; 
When Victory gave the word, 
Then Scotland drew the sword, 
And with arm that never faltered drove the brave de- 
fenders back. 

I saw two great chiefs die, 
Their last breaths like the sigh 
Of the zephyr-sprite that wantons on the rosy lips of 
morn ; 
No envy-poisoned darts, 
No rancour, in their hearts, 
To unfit them for their triumph over death's impending 
scorn. 

And as I thought and gazed, 
My soul, exultant, praised 
The Power to whom each mighty act and victory are 
due, 



82 THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM. 

For the saint-like Peace that smiled 
Like a heaven-gifted child, 
And for the air of quietude that steeped the distant 
view. 

The sun looked down with pride, 
And scattered far and wide 
His beams of whitest glory till they flooded all the 
Plain; 
The hills their veils withdrew, 
Of white, and purplish blue, 
And reposed all green and smiling 'neath the shower of 
golden rain. 

Oh, rare, divinest life 
Of Peace, compared with Strife ! 
Yours is the truest splendour, and the most enduring 
fame; 
All the glory ever reaped 
Where the fiends of battle leaped, 
Is harsh discord to the music of your undertoned 
acclaim. 



DEATH OF WOLFE. S3 

DEATH OF WOLFE. 

•• They run ! they run !" — " Who run ?" Not they 
Who faced that decimating fire 
As coolly as if human ire 

Were rooted from their hearts ; 
They run, while he who led the way 
So bravely on that glorious day, 

Burns for one word with keen desire 
Ere waning life departs ! 

" They run ! they run !" — " Who run?" he cried, 
As swiftly to his pallid brow, 
Like crimson sunlight upon snow, 
The anxious blood returned ; 
" The French ! the French !" a voice replied, 
When quickly paled life's ebbing tide, 

And though his words were weak and low 
His eye with valour burned. 

" Thank God ! I die in peace," he said ; 
And calmly yielding up his breath, 
There trod the shadowy realms of death 
A good man and a brave ; 
Through all the regions of the dead, 
Behold his spirit, spectre-led, 

Crowned with the amaranthine wreath 
That blooms not for the slave. 



84 



BROCK. 

October 13th, 1859 * 

One voice, one people, one in heart 
And soul, and feeling, and desire I 
Re-light the smouldering martial fire, 
Sound the mute trumpet, strike the lyre, 
The hero deed can not expire, 

The dead still play their part. 

Raise high the monumental stone ! 
A nation's fealty is theirs, 
And we are the rejoicing heirs, 
The honored sons of sires whose cares 
We take upon us unawares, 
As freely as our own. 

We boast not of the victory, 

But render homage, deep and just, 
To his — to their — immortal dust, 
Who proved so worthy of their trust 
No lofty pile nor sculptured bust 
Can herald their degree. 

No tongue need blazon forth their fame — 
The cheers that stir the sacred hill 
Are but mere promptings of the will 
That conquered then, that conquers still ; 
And generations yet shall thrill 
At Brock's remembered name. 

* The day of the inauguration of the new Monument on Queenston 
Heights. 



85 



Some souls are the Hesperides 

Heaven sends to guard the golden age, 
Illuming the historic page 
With records of their pilgrimage ; 
True Martyr, Hero, Poet, Sage : 
And he was one of these. 

Each in his lofty sphere sublime 

Sits crowned above the common throng, 
Wrestling with some Pythonic wrong, 
In prayer, in thunder, thought, or song ; 
Briareus-limbed, they sweep along, 
The Typhons of the time. 



gg SONG FOR CANADA. 



SONG FOR CANADA. 

Sons of the race whose sires 
Aroused the martial flame 

That filled with smiles 

The triune Isles, 
Through all their heights of fame 1 
With hearts as brave as theirs, 
With hopes as strong and high, 

We'll ne'er disgrace 

The honoured race 
Whose deeds can never die. 
Let but the rash intruder dare 

To touch our darling strand, 
The martial fires 
That thrilled our sires 

Would flame throughout the land. 

Our lakes are deep and wide, 
Our fields and forests broad ; 

With cheerful air 

We'll speed the share, 
And break the fruitful sod ; 
Till blest with rural peace, 
Proud of our rustic toil, 

On hill and plain 

True kings we'll reign, 
The victors of the soil. 

But let the rash intruder dare 



SONG FOR CANADA. 87 

To touch our darling strand, 

The martial fires 

That thrilled our sires 
Would light him from the land. 

Health smiles with rosy face 
Amid our sunny dales, 

And torrents strong 

Fling hymn and song 
Through all the mossy vales ; 
Our sons are living men, 
Our daughters fond and fair ; 

A thousand isles 

Where Plenty smiles, 
Make glad the brow of Care. 
But let the rash intruder dare 

To touch our darling strand. 
The martial fires 
That thrilled our sires 

Would flame throughout the land. 

And if in future years 

One wretch should turn and fly, 

Let weeping Fame 

Blot out his name 
From Freedom's hallowed sky ; 
Or should our sons e'er prove 
A coward, traitor race, — 

Just heaven ! frown 

In thunder down, 
T' avenge the foul disgrace ! 



SONG FOR CANADA. 

But let the rash intruder dare ' 
To touch our darling strand, 
The martial fires 
That thrilled our sires 
Would light him from the land. 



i'd be a fairy king. 89 

SONG.— I'D BE A FAIRY KING. 

Oh, I'd be a Fairy King, 

With my vassals brave and bold ; 
We'd hunt all day, 
Through the wildwood gay, 
In our guise of green and gold ; 
And we'd lead such a merry, merry life, 
That the silly, toiling bee, 
Would have no sweet 
In its dull retreat, 
So rich as our frolic glee. 
I'd be a Fairy King, 

With my vassals brave and bold ; 
We'd hunt all day, 
Through the wildwood gay, 
In our guise of green and gold. 

At night, when the moon spake down, 
With her bland and pensive tone, 
The fairest Queen 
That ever was seen 
Would sit on my pearly throne ; 
And we'd lead such a merry, merry life, 
That the stars would laugh in show'rs 
Of silver light, 
All the summer night, 
To the airs of the passing Hours. 
I'd be a Fairy King, 

With my vassals brave and bold ; 
We'd hunt all day 
Through the wildwood gay, 
In our guise of green and gold. 



90 i'd be a fairy king. 

We'd talk with the dainty flow'rs, 
And we'd chase the laughing brooks ; 
My merry men, 
Through grove and glen, 
Would search for the mossy nooks ; 
And we'd be such a merry, merry band, 
Such a lively-hearted throng, 
That life would seem 
But a silvery dream 
In the flowery Land of Song. 
I'd be a Fairy King, 

With my vassals brave and bold ; 
We'd hunt all day, 
Through the wildwood gay, 
In our guise of green and gold. 



LOVE WHILE YOU MAT. 91 



SONG.— LOVE WHILE YOU MAY. 

Day by day, with startling fleetness, 

Life speeds away ; 
Love, alone, can glean its sweetness, 

Love while you may. 
While the soul is strong and fearless, 
While the eye is bright and tearless, 
Ere the heart is chilled and cheerless — 

Love while you may. 

Life may pass, but love, undying, 

Dreads no decay ; 
Even from the grave replying, 

" Love while you may." 
Love's the fruit, as life's the flower ; 
Love is heaven's rarest dower ; 
Love gives love its quick'ning power — 

Love while you may. 



92 THE SNOWS. 

THE SNOWS. 

UPPER OTTAWA. 

Over the snows, 

Buoyantly goes 
The lumberers' bark canoe; 

Lightly they sweep, 

Wilder each leap, 
Rending the white caps through. 

Away ! away ! 
With the speed of a startled deer, 

While the steersman true, 

And his laughing crew, 
Sing of their wild career : 

" Mariners glide 

Far o'er the tide, 
In ships that are staunch and strong ; 

Safely as they, 

Speed we away, 
Waking the woods with song." 

Away ! away ! 
With the flight of a startled deer, 

While the laughing crew 

Of the swift canoe 
Sing of the raftsmen's cheer : 

" Through forest and brake, 

O'er rapid and lake, 
We're sport for the sun and rain ; 

Free as the child 

Of the Arab wild, 
Hardened to toil and pain. 



THE SNOWS. 

Away ! away ! 

With the speed of a startled deer, 
While our buoyant flight, 
And the rapid's might, 

Heighten our swift career." 

Over the snows 

Buoyantly goes 
The lumberers' bark canoe ; 

Lightly they sweep, 

Wilder each leap, 
Tearing the white caps through. 

Away ! away ! 
With the speed of a startled deer ; 

There's a fearless crew 

In each light canoe, 
To sing of the raftsmen's cheer. 



4 THE RAPID. 

THE RAPID. 

ST. LAWRENCE, 

All peacefully gliding, 

The waters dividing, 
The indolent batteau moved slowly along, 

The rowers, light-hearted, 

From sorrow long parted, 
Beguiled the dull moments with laughter and song : 
" Hurrah for the Rapid ! that merrily, merrily 
Gambols and leaps on its tortuous way ; 
Soon we will enter it, cheerily, cheerily, 
Pleased with its freshness, and wet with its spray.' 

More swiftly careering, 

The wild Rapid nearing, 
They dash down the stream like a terrified steed ; 

The surges delight them, 

No terrors affright them, 
Their voices keep pace with their quickening speed : 
" Hurrah for the Rapid ! that merrily, merrily 
Shivers its arrows against us in play ; 
Now we have entered it, cheerily, cheerily. 
Our spirits as light as its feathery spray.' 

Fast downward they're dashing, 

Each fearless eye flashing, 
Though danger awaits them on every side ; 

Yon rock — see it frowning ! 

They strike — they are drowning ! 
But downward they speed with the merciless tide : 



THE RAPID. 95 

No voice cheers the Rapid, that angrily, angrily 
Shivers their bark in its maddening play ; 
Gaily they entered it— heedlessly recklessly, 
Mingling their lives with its treacherous spray ! 



LOST AND FOUND. 

LOST AND FOUND. 

In the mildest, greenest grove 

Blest by sprite or fairy, 
Where the melting echoes rove 
Yoices sweet and airy ; 
Where the streams 
Drink the beams 
Of the Sun, 
As they run 
Riverward 
Through the sward, 
A shepherd went astray — 
E'en gods have lost their way. 

Every bird had sought its nest, 

And each flower-spirit 
Dreamed of that delicious rest 
Mortals ne'er inherit ; 
Through the trees 
Swept the breeze, 
Bringing airs 
Unawares 
Through the grove, 
Until love 
Came down upon his heart, 
Refusing to depart. 

Hungrily he quaffed the strain, 
Sweeter still, and clearer, 

Drenched with music's mellow rain, 
Nearer — nearer — dearer ! 



LOST AND FOUND. 97 

Chains of sound 

Gently bound 

The lost Youth, 

Till, in sooth, 

He stood there 

A prisoner, 
Raised between earth and heaven 
By love's divinest leaven. 

Was there ever such a face ? 

Was it not a vision ? 
Had he climbed the starry space, 
To the fields Elysian ? 

Through the glade 

The milk-maid 

With her pail, 

To the vale 

Passed along, 

Breathing song 
Through all his ravished sense, 
To gladden his suspense. 

" Love is swift as hawk or hind, 

Chamois-like in fleetness, 
None are lost that love can find," 
Sang the maid, with sweetness. 
" True, in sooth," 
Thought the Youth, 
" Strong, as swift, 
Love can lift 



LOST AND FOUND. 

Mountain weights 

To the gates 
Of the celestial skies, 
Where all else fades and dies." 

Lightly flew the sunny days, 
Joy and gladness sending ; 
Life becomes a song of praise 
When true hearts are blending. 
Guileless truth 
Won the Youth, 
Kept him there, 
A prisoner ; 
While dear Love 
From above 
Poured down enduring dreams, 
In calm supernal gleams. 



YOUNG AGAIN. 



YOUNG AGAIN. 

Young again ! Young again ! 

Beating heart ! I deemed that sorrow, 
With its torture-rack of pain, 

Had eclipsed each bright to-morrow ; 

And that Love could never rise 

Into life's cerulean skies, 

Singing the divine refrain — 
" Young again ! Young again !" 

Young again ! Young again ! 
Passion dies as we grow older j 

Love that in repose has lain, 
Takes a higher flight, and bolder : 
Fresh from rest and dewy sleep, 
Like the skylark's matin sweep, 
Singing the divine refrain — 
" Young again ! Young again !" 

Young again ! Young again ! 

Book of Youth, thy sunny pages 
Here and there a tear may stain, 

But 'tis Love that makes us sages. 

Love, Hope, Youth — blest trinity ! 

Wanting these, and what were we ? 

Who would chant the sweet refrain — 
" Young again ! Young again !" 



i 



100 GLIMPSES. 



GLIMPSES. 



Sounds of rural life and labour ! 
Not the notes of pipe and tabour, 
Not the clash of helm and sabre 

Bright'ning up the field of glory, 
Can compare with thy ovations, 
That make glad the hearts of nations ; 
E'en the poet's fond creations 

Pale before thy simple story. 

In the years beyond our present, 
King was little more than peasant, 
Labour was the shining crescent, 

Toil, the poor man's crown of glory • 
Have we passed from worse to better 
Since we wove the silken fetter, 
Changed the plough for book and letter. 

Truest life for tinsel story ? 

Up the ladder of the ages 
Clomb the patriarchal sages, 
Solving nature's secret pages, 

Kings of thought's supremest glory ; 
Eagle-winged, and sight far reaching — 
Are we wiser for their teaching ? — 
Wrangling creeds for gentle preaching ! 

Falsest life for truest story ! 

Man is overfraught with culture, 
Virtue early finds sepulture, 
While our vices sate the vulture 



GLIMPSES. 101 

We misname a bird of glory ; 
Life is blindly artificial, 
Rarely pass we its initial, 
All our aims are prejudicial 

To its earnest, simple story, 

Hail, primeval life and labour ! 
Martial notes of pipe and tabour, 
Gleam of spears and clash of sabre, 

Hero march from fields of glory, 
All the thundering ovations 
Surging from the hearts of nations, 
Poet dreams and speculations, 

Pale before thy simple story ! 



102 MY PRATER. 



MY PBAYER. 

God ! forgive the erring thought, 

The erring word and deed, 
And in thy mercy hear the Christ 

Who comes to intercede. 

My sins, like mountain-weights of lead, 

Weigh heavy on my soul ; 
I'm bruised and broken in this strife, 

But Thou canst make me whole. 

Allay this fever of unrest, 
That fights against the Will ; 

And in Thy still small voice do Thou 
But whisper, " Peace, be still!" 

Until within this heart of mine 
Thy lasting peace come down, 

Will all the waves of Passion roll, 
Each good resolve to drown. 

We walk in blindness and dark night 
Through half our earthly way ; 

Our clouds of weaknesses obscure 
The glory of the day. 

We cannot lead the lives we would, 
But grope in dumb amaze, 

Leaving the straight and flowery paths 
To tread the crooked ways. 



MY PRAYER. 

We are as pilgrims toiling on 
Through all the weary hours ; 

And our poor hands are torn with thorns, 
Plucking life's tempting flowers. 

We worship at a thousand shrines, 

And build upon the sands, 
Passing the one great Temple, and 

The Rock on which it stands. 

0, fading dream of human life ! 

What can this change portend ? 
I long for higher walks, and true 

Progression without end. 

Here I know nothing, and my search 

Can find no secret out ; 
I cannot think a single thought 

That is not mixed with doubt. 

Relying on the higher source, 

The influence divine, 
I can but hope that light may dawn 

Within this soul of mine. 

I ask not wisdom, such as that 
To which the world is prone, 

Nor knowledge ask, unless it come 
Direct from God alone. 

Send down then, God ! in mercy send 
Thy Love and Truth to me, 

That I may henceforth walk in light 
That comes direct from Thee. 



103 



104 HER STAR. 



HER STAR. 

When the heavens throb and vibrate 
All along their silver veins, 

To the mellow storm of music 
Sweeping o'er the starry trains, 

Heard by few, as erst by shepherds 
On the far Chaldean plains : 

Not the blazing, torch-like planets, 
Not the Pleiads wild and free, 

Not Arcturus, Mars, Uranus, 

Bring the brightest dreams to me ; 

But I gaze in rapt devotion 
On the central star of three. 

Central star of three that tingle 
In the balmy southern sky ; 

One above, and one below it, 
Dreamily they pale and die, 

As two lesser minds might dwindle, 
When some great soul, passing by, 

Stops, and- reads their cherished secrets, 
With a calm and godlike air, 

Luring all their radiance from them 
Leaving a dim twilight there, 

Something vague, and half unreal, 
Like the Alpha of despair. 






105 



Gazing thus, and holding converse 
"With the silence of my heart, 

I would speak with famed Orion, 
I would question it apart, 

Wrest her love's strange secret from it, 
If there's strength in human art. 

And there come to me sweet whispers, 
Half in answer, half in thought : — 

" Be but strong, impassioned mortal ! 
Love will come to thee unsought ; 

Love is the divine Irene, — 
It is given, and not bought. 

Strong of heart. Be wise, be steadfast, 
Learn, endeavour, and endure; 

Blest with strength and light, in wisdom 
Make the higher purpose sure ; 

Never can her heart receive thee 
Till thine own is rendered pure. 

I but shone in truth above her ; 

Psyche-like, she yearned to me ; 
And her soul, an Aphrodite, 

Rose above the ether sea. 
Love. Love should and will inherit 

The divine Euphrosyne." 

When at night, the gleaming heavens 
Throb through all their starry veins, 

Oft I ponder on Orion, 

And I hear celestial strains 

Passing through my soul, and flooding 
All its green immortal plains. 



106 



Then I pray for strength Promethean, 
Pray for power to endure ; 

Then I say, soul, be steadfast ! 
Make the lofty purpose sure ; 

And that love may be all-worthy, 
God of heaven, make me pure ! 






THE MYSTERY. 107 



THE MYSTERY. 



My mind is like a troubled sea 

O'er which the winds forever sweep ; 
Within its depths, eternally, 

My being's pulses throb and leap ; 
There germs of contemplation sleep, 

Like stars beyond the Milky Way, — 
Like pearls within the gloomy deep, 

That never saw the light of day. 

Oh, wondrous mind, how little known ! 

Whence comes the thought that through my brain 
Floats weirdlike as the pleasing tone 

That quickens a beloved strain ? 
It may have graced some sweet refrain 

A thousand years ago, or more ; 
Some Norman Prince, some valiant Dane, 

May have imbibed it with their lore. 

It may have strengthened Plato's soul, 

Its clarion echoes ringing through 
His brain, the heaven-reaching goal 

Whence wisdom had its starry view ; 
It may have cheered the gifted few 

Whose minds were mints of royal song, 
Who toiled where Shakespeare soared, and drew 

Down blessings from the grateful throng. 

And on for ages yet to come, 

Through minds by heavenly impulse fired, 
That thought may strike some scorner dumb, 

In all its regal guise attired ; 



108 THE MYSTERY. 

Divinely blest, though uninspired, 

Some soul may change its swift career, 

Bearing the great truth, long-desired, 
In triumph to the highest sphere. 

Unbounded universe of Thought I 

Illimitable realms of mind ! 
Uegions of Fancy, wonder-fraught ! 

Imagination unconfined ! 
Temples of mystery ! behind 

Whose veils the God-appointed plan 
In perfect wisdom is enshrined, 

Beyond the pigmy reach of man : 

I cannot — dare not — seek to know 

What finite vision, to the end, 
Through years of strictest search below, 

Must ever fail to comprehend ! 
God ! whose intents so far transcend 

Our poor discernment, let me see 
Some portion of the truths that tend 

By slow gradations up to Thee : 

That in the less imperfect years, 

When human frailty shall have died, 
When the vexed riddle of the spheres, 

Interpreted and glorified, 
Shall be as nothing to the tide 

Of light in which Thy hidden ways 
Will be revealed : I may abide 

Thy meanest instrument of praise, 
And from the broad calm ocean of Thy truth 
And wisdom drinking, find eternal youth. 



LOYE AND TRUTH. 109 

LOYE AXD TRUTH. 

Young Love sat in a rosy bower, 

Towards the close of a summer day ; 
At the evening's dusky hour, 

Truth bent her blessed steps that way ; 
Over her face 
Beaming a grace 
Never bestowed on child of clay. 

Truth looked on with an ardent joy, 

Wondering Love could grow so tired ; 
Hovering o'er him she kissed the boy, 
When, with a sudden impulse fired, 
Exquisite pains 
Burning his veins, 
Wildly he woke, as one inspired. 

Eagerly Truth embraced the god, 

Filling his soul with a sense divine ; 
Rightly he knew the paths she trod, 
Springing from heaven's royal line ; 
Far had he strayed 
From his guardian maid, 
Perilling all for his rash design. 

Still as they went, the tricksy youth 

Wandered afar from the maiden fair ; 
Many a plot he laid, in sooth, 
Wherein the maid could have no share 
Sowing his seeds, 
Bringing forth weeds, 
Seld om a rose, and many a tare. 



110 LOVE AND TRUTH. 

Save when the maiden was by his side, 

Love was erratic, and rarely true ; 
When she smiled on the graceful bride, 
Over the old world rose the new, 
Into life's skies 
Blending her dyes, 
Fairer than those of the rainbow's hue. 

Sunny-eyed maidens, whom Love decoys, 

Mark well the arts of the wayward youth ! 
Sorrows he bringeth, disguised as joys, 
• Rose-hued delights with cores of ruth ; 
Learn to believe 
Love will deceive, 
Save when he comes with his guardian, Truth. 



THE WREN. HI 



THE WREN. 

Early each spring the little wren 

Came scolding to his nest of moss ; 
We knew him by his peevish cry, 
He always sung so very cross. 
His quiet little mate would lay 
Her eggs in peace, and think all day. 

He was a sturdy little wren ; 

And when he came in spring, we knew, 
Or seemed to know, the flowers would grow 
To please him, where they always grew, 
Among the rushes, cheerfully ; 
But not a rush so straight as he ! 

All summer long that little wren 

Would chatter like a saucy thing ; 
And in the hush attack the thrush 

That on the hawthorn perched to sing. 
Like many noisy little men, 
Lived, bragged, and fought that little wren. 

There was a thoughtful maid, and I, 

We used to play along the shore, 
Searching for shells, and culling flowers, 
As at the threshold of life's door, 
Through which we had to pass, we stood, 
Twin types of childish hardihood. 



112 



THE WEEN. 



Year after year we gathered flowers, 
And grew apace ; as children do ; 
And each returning spring we marked 
The little wrens, they never grew ; 
One over-quiet and sedate, 
The other, a bird-reprobate. 

But now the marsh is overflowed, 

The rushes rot beneath the sand ■ 
No spring brings back the little wrens, 
No children loiter hand in hand ; 
The maiden rose-bud, pure and good, 
Grown to the flower of womanhood. 



GRANDPERE. 113 



GRANDPERE. 



Old Grandpere sat in 'the corner, 
With his grandchild on his knee, 

Looking up at his wrinkled visage, 
For his winters were ninety-three. 

Fair Eleanor's locks were flaxen, 
The old man's once were gray, 

But now, they were white as the snow-drift 
That lay on the bleak highway. 

Her summers rolled on as golden 

As waves over sunny seas ; 
But Grandpere could perceive no summers, 

The winters alone were his. 

He folded his arms around her, 
Like Winter embracing Spring ; 

And the angels looked down from heaven, 
And smiled on their slumbering. 

But soon the angelic faces 

Were filled with seraphic light, 

As they gazed on a beauteous spirit 
Passing up through the frosty night : 

Till it stood serene before them, 

A youth most divinely fair ; 
And they saw that the new-born angel 

Was the spirit of old Grandpere. 



114 ENGLAND'S HOPE AND ENGLAND'S HEIR. 

ENGLAND'S HOPE AND ENGLAND'S HEIR, 

England's Hope and England's Heir ! 

Head and crown of Britain's glory, 
Be thy future half so fair 

As her past is famed in story, 
Then wilt thou be great, indeed, 

Daring, where there's cause to dare ; 
Greatest in the hour of need, 

England's Hope and England's Heir. 

By her past, in acts supreme, 

By her present grand endeavour, 
By her future, which the gleam 

Of our fond hopes brings us ever : 
We can trust that thou wilt be 

Worthy of a fame so rare, 
Worthy of thy destiny, 

England's Hope and England's Heir. 

Be thy spirit fraught with hers, 

Queen, whom we revere and honour ; 
Be thine acts love's messengers, 

Brightly flashing back upon her ; 
Be what most her trust would deem, 

Help the answer to her prayer, 
Bealize her holiest dream, 

England's Hope and England's Heir. 

Welcome, Prince ! the land is wide, 
Wider still the love we cherish ; 

Love that thou shalt find, when tried, 
Is not born to droop and perish ; 



ENGLAND S HOPE AND ENGLAND'S HEIR. 115 

Welcome to our heart of hearts ; 

You will find no falsehood there, 
But the zeal that truth imparts, 

England's Hope and England's Heir. 

Welcome to our woodland deeps, 

To our inland lakes, and rivers, 
Where the rapid roars and sweeps, 

Where the brightest sunlight quivers. 
Loyal souls can never fail ; 

Serfdom crouches in its lair ; 
But our British hearts are hale, 

England's Hope and England's Heir. 



116 



ROSE. 

When the evening broods quiescent 

Over mountain, vale and lea, 
And the moon uplifts her crescent 

Far above the peaceful sea, 
Little Rose, the fisher's daughter, 

Passes in her cedar skiff 
O'er the dreamy waste of water, 

To the signal on the cliff. 

Have a care, my merry maiden ! 

Young Adonis though he be, 
Many hearts are secret-laden 

That have trusted such as he. 
Has he worth, and is he truthful ? 

Thoughtless maiden rarely knows ; 
But, "He's handsome, brave and youthful," 

Says the heart of little Rose. 

Hark ! the horn — its shrill vibrations 

Tremble through the maiden's breast, 
As the sweet reverberations 

Dwindle to their whispered rest ; 
Sweeter far the honied sentence 

Sealing up her mind's repose ; 
Love as yet needs no repentance 

In the heart of little Rose. 

Heaven shield thee, trusting mortal ! 

Love has heaved its firstborn sigh ; • 
But from the pellucid portal 

Of her calm, indignant eye, 



ROSE." 117 

Darts that make the strong man tremble 

Pierce his bosom ere he goes ; 
Rank and station may dissemble, 

There is truth in little Rose. 

Take my hand, my fisher maiden, 

There's a grasp for thee and thine j 
Constancy is love's bright Aiden, 

Self-denial is divine. 
Take my hand npon this plateau, 

Let me share thy mortal throes; 
Come, dear Love ! we'll build our chateau 

In the heart of little Rose. 



118 THE DREAMER. 



THE DREAMER. 

Spirit of Song ! whose whispers 

Delight my pensive brain, 
When will the perfect harmony 

Ring through my feeble strain ? 

When will the rills of melody 

Be widened to a stream ? 
When will the bright and gladsome Day 

Succeed this morning dream ? 

" Mortal," the spirit whispered, 
" If thou wouldst truly win 

The race thou art pursuing, 
Heed well the voice within : 

And it shall gently teach thee 
To read thy heart, and know 

No human strain is perfect, 
However sweet it flow. 

And if thou readest truly, 

As surely shalt thou find 
That truths, like rills, though diverse, 

Are choicest in their kind. 

The souls of Poet-Dreamers 
Touch heaven on their way ; 

With the light of Song to guide them 
It should be always Day." 



NIGHT AND MORNING. 119 



NIGHT AND MORNING. 

The winds are piping loud to-night, 
And the waves roll strong and high ; 

God pity the watchful mariner 
Who toils 'neath yonder sky ! 

I saw the vessel speed away, 
With a free, majestic sweep, 

At evening as the sun went down 
To his palace in the deep. 

An aged crone sat on the beach, 

And, pointing to the ship, 
" She'll never return again," she said, 

With a scorn upon her lip. 



The morning rose tempestuous, 

The winds blew to the shore, 
There were corpses on the sands that morn, 

But the ship came nevermore ! 



120 WITHIN THINE EYES. 

WITHIN THINE EYES. 

Within thine eyes two spirits dwell, 

The sweetest and the purest 
That ever wove Love's mystic spell, 
Or plied his arts the surest : 

No smile of morn, 

Though heaven-born, 
Nor sunshine earthward straying, 

E'er charmed the sight 

With half the light 
That round thy lips is playing. 

The stars may shine, the moon may smile, 

The earth in beauty languish, 
Life's sorrows these can but beguile, 
But thou canst heal its anguish. 
Thy voice, like rills 
Of silver, trills 
Such sounds of liquid sweetness, 
Each accent rolls 
Along our souls, 
In lyrical completeness. 

If Friendship lend thee such a grace, 

That men nor gods may slight it, 
How blest the one who views thy face 
When Love comes down to light it ! 

And, oh, if he 

Who holds in fee 
Thy beauty, truth, and reason, 

A traitor prove 

To thee and Love, 
We'll spurn him for his treason . 



GERTRUDE. 121 



GEKTKUDE. 



Underneath the maple-tree 
Gertrude worked her filigree, 

All the summer long ; 
To sweet airs her Toice was wed, 
As she plied her golden thread ; 
Echo stealing through the grove 
Filched away the words of love, 
And the birds, from tree to tree, 
Bore the witching melody 

Through avenues of Song. 

Underneath the maple-trees 
Zephyrs chant her melodies, 

All the summer long • 
Words and airs no longer wed, 
Death has snapped the vocal thread 
Echo sleeping in the grove 
Dreams of liquid airs of love, 
And the birds among the trees 
Fill with sweetest symphonies 

Whole avenues of Song, 



122 



FLOWERS. 

Thank God I love the Flowers ! 

Mute voices of the Spring, 
That gladden all her bowers 

"With their varied blossoming ; 
They weave a charm around them 

On each summer dale and bough, 
For a Fairy train has bound them 

In wreaths upon her brow. 

Far up along the mountain, 

And in the valleys green, 
In the field, and by the fountain, 

The smiling ones are seen ; 
Some looking up to heaven, 

With eyes of deepest blue ; 
Some stooping down at even 

To quaff the sparkling dew. 

And from them all there speaketh 

A language sweet and pure, 
Fitted for him who seeketh 

A God's nomenclature. 
As tidal pulses thrill the seas, 

And moments build the hours, 
Heaven breathes her unvoiced mysteries 

In sermons from the Flowers. 



THE UNATTAINABLE. 123 



THE UNATTAINABLE. 

I yearn for the Unattainable ; 
For a glimpse of a brighter day, 
When hatred and strife, 
With their legions rife, 
Shall forever have passed away ; 
When pain shall cease, 
And the dawn of peace 
Come down from heaven above, 
And man can meet his fellow-man 
In the spirit of Christian Love. 

I yearn for the Unattainable ; 

For a Voice that may long be still, 

To compel the mind, 

As heaven designed, 
To work the Eternal Will ; 

When the brute that sleeps 

In the heart's still deeps 
Will be changed to Pity's dove, 
And man can meet his fellow-man 
In the spirit of Perfect Love. 



124 YEARNINGS. 



YEAENINGS. 

I long for diviner regions, — 
The spirit would reach its goal ; 

Though this world hath surpassing beauty, 
It warreth against the soul. 

There's a cloud in the eastern heaven ; 

Beyond it, a cold gray sky ; 
But I know that the sun's rare radiance 

Will brighten it by and by. 

In the fane of my soul is glowing 

The joy of a hope to come, 
That will touch with its Memnon finger 

The lips that are cold and dumb : 

Till illumed by the smile of heaven, 

And blest with a purer life, 
Will the gloom that o'ershades my spirit 

Depart like a vanquished strife. 



INGRATITUDE. 125 



INGRATITUDE. 

Full on the wave the moonlight weeps, 

To quiet its weary breast ; 
Cruelly cold the mad wave leaps, 

With the moonshine on its crest ; 
Or with scowl, or growl, to the shore it creeps, 

And sinks to its selfish rest. 

Full on yon man-brute smiles the wife, 

To gladden his turbid breast ; 
Savagely stern he seeks the life 

Where he erewhile sought for zest ; 
With a curse, or worse, he ends the strife, 

And sinks to his drunken rest. 

Sea ! has the moon no charms for thee 
That can touch thy cruel breast ? 

Man ! cannot woman's charity 
Give ease to thy soul oppressed ? 

Thou shalt flee, sea ! the moon's witchery, 
Till man has his final rest ! 



126 TRUE LOVE. 



TRUE LOVE. 

Her love is like the hardy flower 

That blooms amid the Alpine snows ; 
Deep-rooted in an icy bower, 

No blast can chill its sweet repose ; 

But fresh as is the tropic rose, 
Drenched in mellowest sunny beams, 
It has as sweet delicious dreams 

As any flower that grows. 

And though an avalanche came down 

And robbed it of the light of day, 
That which withstood the tempest's frown 

In grief would never pine away. 

Hope might withhold her feeblest ray, 
Within her bosom's snowy tomb 
Love still would wear its everbloom, 

The gayest of the gay. 



AN EVENING THOUGHT. 127 



AN EVENING THOUGHT. 

Bird of the fanciful plumage, 

That foldest thy wings in the west, 

Imbuing the shimmering ocean 

With the hues of thy delicate breast, 

Passing away into Dreamland, 
To visions of heavenly rest ! 

Spirit ! when thou art permitted 

To bask in the sunset of life ; 
Serene in thine eventide splendour, 

Thy countenance victory rife ; 
Leaving the world where thou'st triumphed 

Alike o'er its greatness and strife : 

Thine be the destiny, spirit, 
To set like the sun in the west ; 

Folding thy wings of rare plumage, 
Conscious of infinite rest ; 

Heralded on to thy haven, 

The Fortunate Isles of the Blest. 



128 A THOIIHT FOR SPRING. 



A THOUGHT FOR SPRING. 

I am happier for the Spring ; 

For my heart is like a bird 
That has many songs "to sing, 

But whose voice is never heard 
Till the happy year is caroling 

To the daisies on the sward. 

I'd be happier for the Spring, 

Though my heart had grown so old 

Like a crone 'twould sit and sing 
Its shrill runes of wintry cold ; 

For I'd know the year was caroling 
To the daisies on the wold. 



THE SWALLOWS. 129 



THE SWALLOWS. 

I asked the first stray swallow of tlie spring, 

" Where hast thou been through all the winter drear ? 

Beneath what distant skies did'st fold thy wing, 

Since thou wast with us here, 
When Autumn's withered leaves foretold the passing 
year ?" 

And it replied, " Whither has Fancy led 

The plumy thoughts that circle through thy brain ? 

Like birds about some mountain's lofty head, 

Singing a sweet refrain : 
There, without bound, I've been, and must return 
again." 



130 HENNIE AND I. 



SONG.— HENNIE AND I. 

We have a joke whenever we meet, 

Hennie and I ; 
Prattle and laughter, and kisses sweet, 

Hennie and I. 
Were I but twenty, and not two score, 
Hennie and I would laugh still more, 
With plenty of hopeful years in store 
For Hennie and I, Hennie and I ; 
With plenty of hopeful years in store 

For Hennie and I. 

We will be true as Damascus steel, 

Hennie and I ; 
Sealing our truth with a honied seal, 

Hennie and I. 
Eyes so loving, and lips of rose, 
Cheeks where the dainty ripe peach grows, 
And mouth where the sly god smiles jocose 

At Hennie and I, Hennie and I ; 
And mouth where the sly god smiles jocose 

At Hennie and I. 

We have a kiss whenever we part, 

Hennie and I ; 
Grasping of hand, and nutter of heart, 

Hennie and I. 
Were she but twenty, and not sixteen, 
Over my love she'd reign the queen, 



HENNIE AND I. 131 

And no fair rival should come between 

My Hennie and I, Hennie and I ; 

And no fair rival should come between 

My Hennie and I. 



132 THE APRIL SNOW-STORM. 



THE APRIL SNOW-STORM.—- 1858. 

Spread lightly, virgin shower, 
Your winding-sheet of snow ; 

Winter has lost his power, 
But mock not at his woe. 

Fall not so cold and bleak, 
Nor blow the breath of scorn ; 

Gently. Thy sire is weak ; 
And thou, his latest-born. 

Frail type of life thou art : 

At first, pure as the snow 
We come — abide — depart; 

What more, th' Immortals know. 

Fall gently, virgin shower, 

Though wild the west wind raves ; 

Watch through this midnight hour 
Above the new-made graves ! 



Spread gently, virgin shower, 
Your winding sheet of snow ; 

My heart has lost its power, 
But mock not at its woe. 

Fall not so cold and bleak, 
Treat not her corse with scorn ; 

Gently. My heart is weak ; 
She, too, was April-born. 



THE APRIL SNOW-STORM. 133 

Fall gently, virgin shower ; 

The heart once strong and braye 
Hath lost its wonted power ; 

Tis buried in her grave. 



134 GOOD NIGHT. 



GOOD NIGHT. 

We never say, " Good Night ;" 
For our eager lips are fleeter 
Than the tongue, and a kiss is sweeter 

Than parting words, 

That cat like swords ; 
So we always kiss Good Night. 

We never say " Good Night." 
Words are precious, love, why lose 'em ? 
Fold them up in your maiden bosom ; 

There let them rest, 

Like love unconfessed, 
While we kiss a sweet Good Night. 

There comes a last Good Night. 

Human life — not love— is fleeting ; 

Heaven send many a birth-day greeting; 
Dim years roll on 
To life's gray-haired dawn, 

Ere we ki c s our last Good Nisht. 



We've kissed our last Good Night ! 
Love's warm tendrils torn and bleeding, 
Yain all human interceding ! 

Oh, life ! how dark 1 

Its one vital spark 
Was quenched with our last Good Night ! 



135 



HOPELESS. 

I think through, the long, long evenings, 

Such thoughts of intensest pain, 
And I hope and watch for her coming, 

But I hope and watch in vain ; 
My life is a long, long journey 

Over a barren moor, 
With nought but my own dark shadow 

Hastening on before, 

I'm weary of all this watching, 

Aweary of life and thought ; 
For there's little hope in the distance, 

And for peace — I know it not ! 
Oh, why must we think and shudder, 

And shudder and think again ? 
When life's but a dance of shadows 

Haunting a barren plain ! 



pto tli* Mmt §m&. 



INTO THE SILENT LAND. 139 



INTO THE SILENT LAND. 



" Oh for a pen of light, a tongue of fire, 

That every word might burn in living flame 

Upon the age's brow, and leave one name 

Engraven on the future ! One desire 

Fills every nook and cranny of my heart ; 

One hope — one sorrow — one beloved aim ! 

She whose pure life was of my life a part, 

As light is of the day, could she inspire 

My unmelodious muse, or tune the lyre 

To diapasons worthy of the theme, 

How would her joy put on its robes of light, 

And nestle in my bosom once again, 

As when life, like an Oriental dream, 

Fanned by Arabian airs, glode down the stream 

To music whose remembrance is a pain. 

The foot of time might trample on my strain, 

But could not quench its essence. There was might, 

And majesty, and greatness in the love 

She blest me with — a blessing without stain, 

And that was earthly ; since her spirit-sight 

Looked through the veil, and learned love's true delight, 

Which sainted ministrants alone can prove 

Who taste the waters of eternal love : 

I pause to think how wonderful has grown 

The love that was to me so wondrous here ! 

Chained as I am to this terrestrial sphere, 

Groping my way through darkness, and alone, 



140 INTO THE SILENT LAND. 

Like a blind eaglet soaring towards the sun, 

How would her full experience lift and cheer 

The heart that never feels its duty done, 

And with a girdle of pure light enzone 

My flowery world of thought, and make it all her own." 

Thus mused the Minstrel, for his heart was sad. 
Death had bereaved him of his bride, while youth, 
And looming years of future trust and truth, 
Knit them together, till their souls were clad 
With joy ineffable. Love's great High Priest 
Sacrificed in their hearts to Him that doeth 
All things well ; and such rare, perpetual feast 
Of love and truth no mortals ever had, 
To keep their memories green, their lives serene and 
glad. 

He sat again within the quiet room, 
"Where Death had snapped one golden thread of life, 
And the pale hand of Sickness, sorrow-rife, 
Robbed the plump cheek of childhood of its bloom ; 
Where she, another Philomena, moved 
Like a fond Charity — the coming wife 
Ordained to crown his being : And he loved. 
The future rose before him, joy and gloom ; 
For where the sunlight shone, there waved the sable 
plume. 

And yet he failed not, for the coming pain ; 
The coming bliss would counterbalance all. 
The sight prophetic that perceived the pall, 
Looked far beyond for the celestial gain. 



INTO THE SILENT LAND. 141 

They do not truly love who cannot yield 

The mortal up at the Immortal's call, 

Or fail to triumph for the soul that's sealed. 

His mind was strung to one harmonious strain : 

To give when God should ask, and not resign in vain. 

Love was to him life's chiefest victory ; 
He knew no greater, and he sought no less. 
Like a green isle surrounded by the sea 
That gives it health and vigour, so was he 
The centre of love's sphere of .perfectness ; 
He breathed its heavenly atmosphere ; the key 
That opened every chamber in love's court 
Was in his hand ; love's mystery was his sport ; 
He knelt within love's fane and worshipped there — 
But not alone, for one was by his side 
Whose love refined his being, filled the air 
Of life's irradiated sky with light, 
As the sun floods the heavens with a tide 
Of renovating freshness, as the night 
Is mellowed by the ample moon. 
And hoping for the recompense 
That would be theirs in life's approaching noon, 
They built on hope's high eminence 
Their airy palaces, whose magnificence 
Surpassed the dreams that fancy drew, 
So fair the promised land that lay within their view. 

And here they lived ; just within reach of heaven. 
They could put forth their hands and touch the skies 
That brooded o'er the walls of chrysolite, 
The airy minarets, and golden domes 



142 INTO THE SILENT LAND. 

Of their new home, by Love, the Maker, given, 

Steeped in his brightest dyes. 

All nature opened np her ponderous tomes, 

Whereby they had new knowledge and new sight, 

Learned greater truths, and saw the paths of light, 

Mosaic-paven, which to Duty led. 

And there were secrets written overhead, 

In burning hieroglyphs of thought, 

From which they gleaned such lessons as are taught 

Only to those whom heaven, in graciousness, 

Lifts in her arms with a divine caress. 

Earth, like a joyous maiden whose pure soul 

Is filled with sudden ecstacy, became 

A fruitful Eden ; and the golden bowl 

That held their elixir of life was filled 

To overflowing with the rarest draught 

Ever by gods or men in rapture quaffed ; 

Till from the altar of their hearts love's flame 

Passed through the veins of the world, and thrilled 

The soul of the rejoicing universe, 

Which became theirs, and like true neophytes 

They drained the sweet nepenthe, and love's rites 

Wiped from their hearts all trace of the primeval curse. 

The happy months rolled on ; each wedded day 
A bridal ; and each calm and holy eve 
Strewed with rare blessings all the sunny way 
Through which they passed, with so divine a joy 
That in his brain would meditation weave 
Love's roses into garlands of sweet song, 
To deck the brow of his devoted wife. 



INTO THE SILENT LAND. 143 

In this their El Dorado, no alloy 

Mixed with the coinage of their wedded life ; 

The workmen in the mint an honest throng. 

No wonder, then, that with so fine a bliss 

Informing every fibre of his brain, 

His thoughts begat impressions such as this ; 

Linking their lives together with a chain 

Of melody as rare as some divine refrain : 

Like dew to the thirsty flower, 

Like sweets to the hungry bee, 
Is love's divinest dower, 
Its tenderness and power, 

To thee, dear Wife ! to thee. 

Like light to the darkened spirit, 

Like oil to the turbid sea, 
Like truthful words to merit, 
Are the blessings I inherit 

"With thee, dear Wife ! with thee. 

Afar in the distant ages, 

Soul-ransomed, and spirit-free, 
I'll read all being's pages, 
Unread by mortal sages', 

With thee, dear Wife ! with thee. 

None but the happy heart could carol thus ; 
A feather stolen from Devotion's wing, 
To keep as a memento of the time 
When earth met heaven, in life's duteous 
And prayerful journey towards the shadowy clime ; 



144 INTO THE SILENT LAND, 

Ere they descended from their height sublime, 

Where at Love's well-filled table, banqueting, 

They sat, and watched the first glad year, 

Earthlike, revolving round the sun 

Of their true life. Within that sphere 

Was the new Eden. One by one 

The precious moments dropped like golden sands, 

And formed the solid hours. No perilous strands 

Delayed life's blissful current, as it sped 

Through flowery realms with blue skies overhead, 

To songs and laughter musically sweet, 

As if all sorrow had forever fled; 

And idylls, sung with cheerful tone, 

Haunted the calm, enchanted zone 

That hemmed them in, 

Where, like a stately queen, 

Sate Peace, beatified, serene, 

The guardian, heaven-sent, of this their fair demesne : 



LOVE'S ANNIVERSARY. 

Like a bold, adventurous swain 

Just a year ago to-day, 
I launched my bark on a radiant main, 

And Hymen led the way : 
"Breakers ahead!" he cried, 

As he sought to overwhelm 
My daring craft in the shrieking tide, 
But Love, like a pilot bold and tried, 

Sat, watchful, at the helm. 



INTO THE SILENT LAND. 145 

And we passed the treacherous shoals, 

Where many a hope lay dead, 
And splendid wrecks were piled, like the ghouls 

Of joys forever fled. 
Once safely over these, 

We sped by a fairy realm, 
Across the bluest and calmest seas 
That were ever kissed by a truant breeze, 

With Love still at the helm. 

We sailed by sweet, odorous isles, 

Where the flowers and trees were one ; 
Through lakes that vied with the golden smiles 

Of heaven's unclouded sun : 
Still speeds our merry bark, 

Threading life's peaceful realm, 
And 'tis ever morn with our marriage-lark, 
For the Pilot-Love of our safety-ark 

Stands, watchful, at the helm. 



A beautiful land is the Land of Dreams, 

Green hills and valleys, and deep lagoons, 
Swift-rushing torrents and gentle streams, 

Glassing a myriad silver moons ; 
Mirror-like lakelets with lovely isles, 

And verdurous headlands looking down 
On the Neread shapes, whose smiles 

Were worth the price of a peaceful crown. 



146 INTO THE SILENT LAND. 

We clutch at the silvery bars 
Flung from the motionless stars, 

And climb far into space. 

Defying the race 
Who ride in aerial cars. 

We take up the harp of the mind, 
And finger its delicate strings ; 
The notes, soft and light 
As a moonbeam's flight, 
Departing on viewless wings. 
Afar in some fanciful bower, 

Some region of exquisite calm, 
Where the starlight falls in a gleaming shower, 
We sink to repose 
On our couch of rose, 
Inhaling no mortal balm. 
The worlds are no longer unknown, 
We pass through the uttermost sky, 
Our eyelids are kissed 
By a gentle mist, 
And we feel the tone 
Of a calmer zone, 
As if heaven were wondrous nigh. 

A fanciful land is the Land of Dreams, 

Where earth and heaven are clasping hands ; 

No heaven — no earth, 

But one wide, new birth, 
Where Beauty and Goodness, and human worth, 
Make earth of heaven and heaven of earth ; 
And angels are walking on golden strands. 



INTO THE SILENT LAND. 147 

And the pearly gates of the universe 
Of mind and fancy, opening 
To the touch of the dainty finger-tips 
Of elegant Peris with rose-bud lips, 
Delicate, weird-like sounds are born 
From the amber depths of odorous morn, 
And spirits of beauty and light rehearse 
Such strains as the young immortals sing, 

When the souls of the blest 

Are borne to their rest, 
On luminous pinions of light serene 
To the fragrant bowers of evergreen ; 
O'er the rosy plains, where the dying hours 
Are changed by a spell to celestial flowers, 
Where the skies have a hue no name can express, 
For the tone of their passionate loveliness 
Surpasseth all human imagining. ' 

Such was their beautiful Dream of Life ; 

Each stern reality softened down ; 
Earth seemed to have ended her age of Strife 

And Harmony reigned, her olive crown 
Resting on the Parian brow 

Of the fair victor, like the gleam 
Of the silvery moon on waves that flow 

Thoughtfully down the summer stream. 
Such was their earnest Dream of Life ! 
Was it some angel, with jealous eye, 
Seeing such love beneath the sky 
As never yet in world or star, 
Or spheral height, that reached so far 
'Twas never beheld by mortal sight, 



148 INTO THE SILENT LAND. 

Or elsewhere, save in highest heaven, 
Was duly earned, or truly given, 
That leagued with the usurper, Death, 
To quench the light that shone so bright 
That in all the earth there was not a breath 
So foul as to change their day to night ? 

Alone ! alone ! Oh, word of fearful tone ! 

Well might the moon withhold her light, 

The stars withdraw from human sight, 

When Love was overthrown. 

The Minstrel's heart how changed ! 

Love's principalities, 

O'er which he reigned supreme, 

Usurped by earth's realities ; 

The realm through which he ranged 

Become a vanished dream ! 

And yet he sung, as sings 

The dying swan that droops its wings 

And drifts along the stream : 



THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW PANE. 

A joy from my soul's departed, 

A bliss from my heart is flown, 
As weary, weary-hearted, 

I wander alone — alone ! 
The night wind sadly sigheth 

A withering, wild refrain, 
And my heart within me dieth 

For the light in the window pane. 



INTO THE SILENT LAND. 149 

The stars overhead are shining, 

As brightly as e'er they shone, 
As heartless — sad — repining, 

I wander alone — alone I 
A sudden flash comes streaming, 

And flickers adown the lane 7 
But no more for me is gleaming 

The light in the window pane. 

The voices that pass are cheerful, 
Men laugh as the night winds moan ; 

They cannot tell how fearful 
'Tis to wander alone — alone ! 

For them, with each night's returning, 
Life singeth its tenderest strain, 

Where the beacon of love is burning — 
The light in the window pane. 

Oh, sorrow beyond all sorrows 

To which human life is prone : 
Without thee, through all the morrows. 

To wander alone — alone I 
Oh, dark, deserted dwelling \ 

Where Hope like a lamb was slain, 
No voice from thy lone walls welling, 

No light in thy window pane. 

But memory, sainted angel ! 

Bolls back the sepulchral stone, 
And sings like a sweet evangel : 
" No — never, never alone 1 



150 INTO THE SILENT LAND. 

True grief has its royal palace, 

Each loss is a greater gain ; 
And Sorrow ne'er filled a chalice 

That Joy did not wait to drain !" 

" Man must be perfected 

By suffering," he said ; 
" And Death is but the stepping-stone, whereby 

We mount towards the gate 

Of heaven, soon or late. 
Death is the penalty of life ; we die, 

Because we live ; and life 
Is but a constant strife 
With the immortal Impulse that within 
Our bodies seeks control — 
The time-abiding Soul, 
That wrestles with us — yet we fain would win. 

And what ? the victory 

Would make us slaves ; and we, 
Who in our blindness struggle for the prize 

Of this illusive state 

Called Life, do but frustrate 
The higher law — refusing to be wise." 

Rightly he knew, indeed, 

Earth's brightest paths but lead 
To the true wisdom of that perfect state, 

Where Knowledge, heaven-born, 

And Love's eternal morn, 
Awaiteth those who would be truly great. 



INTO THE SILENT LAND. 151 

With what abiding trust 

He rose from out the dust, 
xis Death's swift chariot passed him by the way ; 

No -visionary dream 

Was his — no trifling theme — 
The Soul's great Mystery before him lay : 



THE SOUL. 

All my mind has sat in state, 
Pond'ring on the deathless Soul : 
What must be the Perfect Whole, 

When the atom is so great ! 

God ! I fall in spirit down, 

Low as Persian to the sun ; 

All my senses, one by one, 
In the stream of Thought must drown. 

On the tide of mystery, 

Like a waif, I'm seaward borne ; 

Ever looking for the morn 
That will yet interpret Thee. 

Opening my blinded eyes, 

That have strove to look within, 
'Whelmed in clouds of doubt and sin, 

Sinking where I dared to rise : 

Could I trace one Spirit's flight, 

Track it to its final goal, 

Know that ' Spirit' meant l the Soul, ' 
I must perish in the light. 



152 INTO THE SILENT LAND. 

All in vain I search, and cry : 

"What, Soul, and whence art thou?" 
Lower than the earth I how, 

Stricken with the grave reply : 

" Wouldst thou ope what God has sealed — 
Sealed in mercy here below ? 
What is best for man to know, 

Shall most surely be revealed !" 

Deep on deep of mystery ! 

Ask the sage, he knows no more 

Of the soul's unspoken lore 
Than the child upon his knee ! 

Cannot tell me whence the thought 
That is passing through my mind ! 
Where the mystic soul is shrined, 

Wherewith all my life is fraught ? 

Knows not how the brain conceives 
Images almost divine j 
Cannot work my mental mine, 

Cannot bind my golden sheaves. 

Is he wiser, then, than I, 

Seeing he can read the stars ? 
I have rode in fancy's cars 

Leagues beyond his farthest sky ! 

Some old Kabbi, dreaming o'er 
The sweet legends of his race, 
Ask him for some certain trace 

Of the far, eternal shore. 



INTO THE SILENT LAND. 153 

No. The Talmud page is dark, 

Though it burn with quenchless fire ; 
And the insight must pierce higher, 

That would find the vital spark. 

0, my Soul ! be firm and wait, 

Hoping with the zealous few, 

Till the Shekinah of the True 
Lead thee through the Golden Gate. 



SONNETS, 

WRITTEN IN THE ORILLIA WOODS. 
3lirattsfc.I850. 



DEDICATED 



IHg JftimUs 



' ROCKRIDGE," ORILLIA, C. W. 



SONNETS. 



PROEM. 



Alice, I need not tell yon that the Art 
That copies Nature, even at its best, 
Is bnt the echo of a splendid tone, 
Or like the answer of a little child 
To the deep qnestion of some frosted sage. 
For Natnre in her grand magnificence, 
Compared to Art, mnst ever raise her head 
Beyond the cognizance of human minds : 
This is the spirit merely ; that, the soul. 
We watch her passing, like some gentle dream, 
And catch sweet glimpses of her perfect face ; 
We see the flashing of her gorgeous robes, 
And, if her mantle ever falls at all, 
How few Elishas wear it sacredly, 
As if it were a valued gift from heaven. 
God has created ; we but re-create, 
According to the temper of our minds ; 
According to the grace He has bequeathed ; 
According to the uses we have made 
Of His good-pleasure given unto us. 
And so I love my art ; chiefly, because 
Through it I rev'rence Nature, and improve 
The tone and tenor of the mind He gave. 
God sends a Gift; we crown it with high Art, 



160 SONNETS — PROEM. 

And make it worthy the bestower, when 

The talent is not hidden in the dnst 

Of pampered negligence and venial sin, 

But put to studious use, that it may work 

The end and aim for which it was bestowed. 

All Good is God's ; all Love and Truth are His ; 

We are His workers ; and we dare not plead 

But that He gave us largely of all these, 

Demanding a discreet return, that when 

The page of life is written to its close 

It may receive the seal and autograph 

Of His good pleasure — the right royal sign 

And signet of approval, to the end 

That we were worthy of the gift divine, 

And through it praised the Great Artificer. 

In my long rambles through Orillian woods ; 
Out on the ever-changing Couchiching ; 
By the rough margin of the Lake St. John; 
Down tlie steep Severn, where the artist sun, 
In dainty dalliance with the blushing stream, 
Transcribes each tree, branch, leaf, and rock and flower, 
Perfect in shape and colour, clear, distinct, 
With all the panoramic change of sky — 
Even as Youth's bright river, toying with 
The fairy craft where Inexperience dreams, 
And subtle Fancy builds its airy halls, 
In blest imagination pictures most 
Of bright or lovely that adorn life's banks, 
With the blue vault of heaven over all ; 
On that serene and wizard afternoon, 
As hunters chase the wild and timid deer 



SONNETS — PROEM. 161 

We chased the quiet of Medonte's shades 

Through the green windings of the forest road, 

Past Nature's venerable rank and file 

Of primal woods — her Old Guard, sylvan-plumed — 

The far-off Huron, like a silver thread, 

The clue to some enchanted labyrinth, 

Dimly perceived beyond the stretch of woods, 

Th' approaches tinted by a purple haze, 

And softened into beauty like the dream 

Of some rapt seer's Apocalyptic mood ; 

And when at Rcckridge we sat looking out 

Upon the softened shadows of the night, 

And the wild glory of the throbbing stars ; 

Where'er we bent our Eden-tinted way: 

My brain was a weird wilderness of Thought : 

My heart, love's sea of passion tossed and torn, 

Calmed by the presence of the loving souls 

By whom I was surrounded. All the while 

They deemed me passing tame, and wondered when 

My dreamy castle would come toppling down. 

I was but driving back the aching past, 

And mirroring the future. And these leaves 

Of meditation are but perfumes from 

The censer of my feelings ; honied drops 

Wrung from the busy hives of heart and brain ; 

Mere etchings of the artist ; grains of sand 

From the calm shores of that unsounded deep 

Of speculation, where all thought is lost 

Amid the realms of Nature and of God. 



162 



My soul goes out to meet her, and my heart 
Flings wide the portals of its love, and yearns 
To have her enter its serene retreat. 
A poor stray lamb, not wand'ring from the fold, 
But all unstudied in the worldling's art, 
Turning life's mintage into seeming gold, 
Wherewith to purchase love and love's returns ; 
Unknowing that love's waters, though so sweet, 
Lead to some bitter Marah. So my soul 
Goes out to meet her, and it clasps her home, 
And seeks to bear her" upward to the goal 
At which the righteous enter. From the dome 
Of starriest Night two blest Immortals come, 
To bear us spheral-ward to God's own mercy-seat. 



163 



'Tis summer still, yet now and then a leaf 
Falls from some stately tree. True type of life ! 
How emblamatic of the pangs that grief 
Wrings from our blighted hopes, that one by one 
Drop from us in our wrestle with the strife 
And natural passions of our stately youth. 
And thus we fall beneath life's summer sun. 
Each step conducts us through an opening door 
Into new halls of being, hand in hand 
With grave Experience, until we command 
The open, wide-spread autumn fields, and store 
The full ripe grain of Wisdom and of Truth. 
As on life's tott'ring precipice we stand, 
Our sins like withered leaves are blown about the land, 



164 SONNETS, 



III. 

Oh, holy sabbath morn ! thrice blessed day 
Of solemn rest, true peace, and earnest prayer. 
How many hearts that never knelt to pray 
Are glad to breathe thy soul-sustaining air. 
I sit within the quiet woods, and hear 
The village church-bell's soft inviting sound, 
And to the confines of the loftiest sphere 
Imagination wings its airy round ; 
A myriad spirits have assembled there, 
Whose prayers on earth a sweet acceptance found. 
I go to worship in Thy House, God ! 
With her, thy young creation bright and fair ; 
Help us to do Thy will, and not despair, 
Though both our hearts should bend beneath Thy 
chastening rod. 



165 



IV. 

The birds are singing merrily, and here 
A squirrel claims the lordship of the woods, 
And scolds me for intruding. At my feet 
The tireless ants all silently proclaim 
The dignity of labour. In my ear 
The bee hums drowsily ; from sweet to sweet 
Careering, like a lover weak in aim. 
I hear faint music in the solitudes; 
A dreamlike melody that whispers peace 
Imbues the calmy forest, and sweet rills 
Of pensive feeling murmur through my brain, 
Like ripplings of pure water down the hills 
That slumber in the moonlight. Cease, oh, cease ! 
Some day my weary heart will coin these into pain. 



166 



Blest Spirit of Calm that dwellest in these woods ! 
Thou art a part of that serene repose 
That ofttimes lingers in the solitudes 
Of my lone heart, when the tumultuous throes 
Of some vast Grief have borne me to the earth. 
For I have fought with Sorrow face to face ; 
Have tasted of the cup that brings to some 
A frantic madness and delirious mirth, 
But prayed and trusted for the light to come, 
To break the gloom and darkness of the place. 
Through the dim aisles the sunlight penetrates, 
And nature's self rejoices ; heaven's light 
Comes down into my heart, and in its might 
My soul stands up and knocks at God's own temple^ 
gates. 



167 



VI. 

Through every sense a sweet balm permeates, 
As music strikes new tones from every nerve. 
The soul of Feeling enters at the gates 
Of Intellect, and Fancy comes to serve 
With fitting homage the propitious guest. 
Nature, ere while so lonely and oppressed, 
Stands like a stately Presence, and looks down 
As from a throne of power. I have grown 
Full twenty summers backwards, and my youth 
Is surging in upon me till my hopes 
Are as fresh-tinted as the checkered leaves 
That the sun shines through, All the future opes 
Its endless corridors, where time unweaves 
The threads of Error from the golden warp of Truth, 



168 



VII. 

Our life is like a forest, where the sun 
Glints down upon us through the throbbing leaves ; 
The full light rarely finds us. One by one, 
Deep rooted in our souls, there springeth up 
Dark groves of human passion, rich in gloom, 
At first no bigger than an acorn-cup. 
Hope threads the tangled labyrinth, but grieves 
Till all our sins have rotted in their tomb, 
And made the rich loam of each yearning heart 
To bring forth fruits and flowers to new life. 
We feel the dew from heaven, and there start 
From some deep fountain little rills whose strife 
Is drowned in music. Thus in light and shade 
We live, and move, and die, through all this earthly 
o'lade. 



169 



VIII. 

Above where I am sitting, o'er these stones, 
The ocean waves once heaved their mighty forms ; 
And vengeful tempests and appalling storms 
Wrung from the stricken sea portentous moans, 
That rent stupendous icebergs, whose huge heights 
Crashed down in fragments through the startled 

nights. 
Change, change, eternal change in all but God ! 
Mysterious nature ! thrice mysterious state 
Of body, soul, and spirit ! Man is awed, 
But triumphs in his littleness. A mote, 
He specks the eye of the age and turns to dust, 
And is the sport of centuries. We note 
More surely nature's ever-changing fate ; 
Her fossil records tell how she performs her trust. 



170 



IX. 

Another day of rest, and I sit here 
Among the trees, green mounds, and leaves as sere 
As my own blasted hopes. There was a time 
When Love and perfect Happiness did chime 
Like two sweet sounds upon this blessed day ; 
But one has flown forever, far away 
From this poor Earth's unsatisfied desires 
To love eternal, and the sacred fires 
With which the other lighted up my mind 
Have faded out and left no trace behind, 
But dust and bitter ashes. Like a bark 
Becalmed, I anchor through the midnight dark, 
Still hoping for another dawn of Love. 
Bring back my olive branch of Happiness, dove ! 



171 



Poor snail, that toilest at niy weary feet, 
Thou, too, must have thy burden ! Life is sweet, 
If we would make it so. How vast a load 
To carry all its days along the road 
Of its serene existence ! Christian-like, 
It toils with patience, seeking sweet repose 
Within itself when wearied with the throes 
Of its life-struggle. The low sounds that strike 
Upon the ear in wafts of melody, 
Are cruel mockeries, snail, of thee. 
The cricket's chirp, the grasshopper's shrill tone, 
The locust's jarring cry, all mock thy lone 
And dumb-like presence. May this heart of mine, 
When tried, put on a resignation such as thine, 



172 



XI. 

Oil, that I were the spirit of these wilds ! 
I'd make the zephyrs dance for my delight, 
And lead a life as happy as a child's. 
Echo should tremble with unfeigned affright, 
And mock its own weird answers. I would kiss 
Eliza's cheek, and touch her lips with dew 
Stol'n from the scented rose. And Carrie's laugh 
Should be a portion of the silver rills' 
Sweet music, breathed mellifluously through 
The hearts of generations. She should quaff 
The nectar of inspired song, and thrills 
Of sweet remembrances of her should strew 
The woodland air, as sand-grains strew the shore ; 
And these two hearts should be my joy for evermore. 



SONNETS. 173 



XII. 



The moon shone down on fair Eliza's face, 
And made it beautiful. No fitter place 
Could she have chosen for her gracious smile ; 
For as she sat there in the languid light, 
Methousht I'd found a soul as free from guile 
As ever came from God. Oh, favored Night ! 
Oh. mild, impassioned moon and starry spheres ! 
To gaze upon her through the silent years 
Without rebuke. But I have looked within, 
And found the truest beauty ; have laid bare 
A spiritual excellence as rare 
As ever mortal being hoped to win. 
Heart, mind, and soul, I analysed them all, 
And saw where heaven kept divinest carnival. 



174 



XIII. 

I've almost grown a portion of this place ; 
I seem familiar with each mossy stone ; 
Even the mimble chipmunk passes on, 
And looks, but never scolds me. • Birds have flown 
And almost touched my hand ; and I can trace 
The wild bees to their hives. I've never known 
So sweet a pause from labour. But the tone 
Of a past sorrow, like a mournful rill 
Threading the heart of some melodious hill, 
Or the complainings of the whippoorwill, 
Passes through every thought, and hope, and aim. 
It has its uses ; for it cools the flame 
Of ardent love that burns my being up — 
Love, life's celestial pearl, diffused through all its cup. 



175 



XIV. 

There is no sadness here. Oh, that my heart 
Were calm and peaceful as these dreamy groves ! 
That all my hopes and passions, and deep loves, 
Could sit in such an atmosphere of peace, 
Where no unholy impulses would start 
Responsive to the throes that never cease 
To keep my spirit in such wild unrest. 
'Tis only in the struggling human breast 
That the true sorrow lives. Our fruitful joys 
Have stony kernels hidden in their core. 
Life in a myriad phases passeth here, 
And death as various — an equal poise ; 
Yet all is but a solemn change — no more ; 
And not a sound save joy pervades the atmosphere. 



176 



SONNETS. 



XV. 

Last night I heard the plaintive whippoorwill, 
And straightway Sorrow shot his swiftest dart. 
I know not why, but it has chilled my heart 
Like some dread thing of evil. All night lorn? 
My nerves were shaken, and my pulse stood still, 
And waited for a terror yet to come 
To strike harsh discords through my life's sweet song. 
Sleep came — an incubus that filled the sum 
Of wretchedness with dreams so wild and chill 
The sweat oozed from me like great drops of gall ; 
An evil spirit kept my mind in thrall, 
And rolled my body up like a poor scroll 
On which is written curses that the soul 
Shrinks back from when it sees some hellish carnival. 



177 



XVI. 

My footsteps press where, centuries ago, 
The Ked Men fought and conquered ; lost and won. 
Whole tribes and races, gone like last year's snow, 
Have found the Eternal Hunting-Grounds, and run 
The fiery gauntlet of their active days, 
Till few are left to tell the mournful tale : 
And these inspire us with such wild amaze 
They seem like spectres passing down a vale 
Steeped in uncertain moonlight, on their way 
Towards some bourn where darkness blinds the day, 
And night is wrapped in mystery profound. 
We cannot lift the mantle of the past : 
. We seem to wander over hallowed ground : 
We scan the trail of Thought, but all is overcast. 



178 



XVII. 

There was a time — and that is all we know ! 
No record lives of their ensanguined deeds : 
The past seems palsied with some giant blow, 
And grows the more obscure on what it feeds. 
A rotted fragment of a human leaf; 
A few stray skulls ; a heap of human bones ! 
These are the records — the traditions brief — 
'Twere easier far to read the speechless stones. 
The fierce Ojibwas, with tornado force, 
Striking white terror to the hearts of braves ! 
The mighty Hurons, rolling on their course, 
Compact and steady as the ocean waves ! 
The stately Chippewas, a warrior host ! 
Who were they ? — Whence ? — And why ? no human 
tongue can boast ! 



179 



XVIII. 

I do not wonder that the Druids built 
Their sacred altars in the sacred groves. 
Fit place to worship God. The native guilt 
Of our poor weak humanity behoves 
That we should set aside no little part 
Of the devotion of the yearning heart 
To rest and peace, as typical of that 
Sweet tranquil rest to which the good aspire. 
Calm thoughts are as the purifying fire 
That burns the useless dross from life's mixed gold, 
And lights the torch of mind. While grasping at 
The shadow for the substance, youth grows old, 
And groves of palm spring up in every heart — 
Temples to God, wherein we pray and sit apart. 



180 SONNETS 



XIX. 

How my heart yearns towards my friends at home ! 
Poor suffering souls, whose lives are like the trees, 
Bent, crushed, and broken in the storm of life ! 
A whirlwind of existence seems to roam 
Through, some poor hearts continually. These 
Have neither rest nor pause ; one day is rife 
With tempest, and another dashed with gloom ; 
And the few rays of light that might illume 
Their thorny path are drenched with tearful rain. 
Yet these pure souls live not their lives in vain ; 
For they become as spiritual guides 
And lights to others ; rising with the tides 
Of their full being into higher spheres, 
Brighter and brighter still through all the coming 
years. 



SONNETS. 181 



XX 

I sat within the temple of her heart, 
And watched the living Soul as it passed through, 
Arrayed in pearly vestments, white and pure. 
The calm, immortal Presence made me start. 
It searched through all the chambers of her mind 
With one mild glance of love, and smiled to view 
The fastnesses of feeling, strong — secure, 
And safe from all surprise. It sits enshrined 
And offers ineense in her heart, as on 
An altar sacred unto God. The dawn 
Of an imperishable love passed through 
The lattice of my senses, and I, too, 
Did offer incense in that solemn place — 
A woman's heart made pure and sanctified by Grace, 



182 



XXL 

Intense young soul, that takest hearts by storm, 
And chills them into sorrow with a look ! 
Some minds are open as a well-read book ; 
But here the leaves are still uncut — unscanned, 
The volume clasped and sealed, and all the warm 
And passionate exuberance of love 
Held in submission to these threadbare flaws, 
And creeds of weaknesses, poor human laws. 
Stand up erect — nay kneel — for from above 
God's light is streaming on thee. Fashion's daws 
May fawn and flatter like a cringing pack 
Of servile hounds beneath the keeper's hand, 
But these are not thy peers ; they drive thee back : 
Urge on the car of Thought, and take a higher 
stand ! 



183 



XXII. 

Dark, dismal day — the first of many such ! 
The wind is sighing through the plaintive trees, 
In fitful gusts of a half-frenzied woe ; 
Affrighted clouds the hand might almost touch, 
Their black wings bend so mournfully and low, 
Sweep through the skies like night-winds o'er the seas, 
There is no chirp of bird through all the grove, 
Save that of the young fledgeling rudely flung 
From its warm nest ; and like the clouds above 
My soul is dark, and restless as the breeze 
That leaps and dances over Couchiching. 
Soon will the last duett be sweetly sung ; 
But through the years to come our hearts will ring 
With memories, as dear as time and love can bring. 



184 SONNETS— AtJ REVOIR. 



AU REVOIR. 



That morn our hearts were like artesian wells, 
Both deep and calm, and brimming with pure love. 
And in each one, like to an April day, 
Truth smiled and wept, while Courage wound his 

horn, 
Dispatching echoes that are whispering still 
Through all the vacant chambers of our souls ; 
While Sorrow sat with drooped and aimless wing, 
Within the solitary fane of thought. 
We wished some warlike Joshua were there 
To make the sun stand still, or to put back 
The dial to the brighter side of time. 
A cloud hung over Couchiching ; a cloud 
Eclipsed the merry sunshine of our hearts. 
We needed no philosopher to teach 
That laughter is not always born of joy. 
" gill's for t\t best," the fair Eliza said ; 
And we derived new courage from her lips, 
That spake the maxim of her trusting heart. 
We even smiled, at some portentous sign 
That signified — well, if it turn out true, 
Then, I'll believe it. Heaven works in signs 
More parting words, more lingering farewells, 
Pressure of hands, and thrilling touch of lips, 
A waving of white handkerchiefs, and Love 
Grew prayerful, and knelt down, and wept 
His scattered rosary of human hearts. 



SONNETS— AU REVOIR. 185 

Soon looking back, we saw where Raniah lay; 
Cold ; wan, and cheerless as the race it holds/ 
And as we neared the Lake the sun came forth, 
As tardily as if the sluggard day 
Had slept more soundly for the piping stomi, 
That, veering round, had flung its challenge out 
In sullen menace to the western sky, 
Now black with clouds. A flash, a muffled roll 
Of elemental passion, broke the spell, 
And down on Siincoe fell the sudden rain, 
Veiling the gloomy landscape from our sight. 
Throughout the changeful day, alternate cloud 
And sunshine left their traces on our hearts, 
Until the evening reared its dreamy piles 
Of cloud-built chateaux steeped in gorgeous tints, 
That from celestial censers are outpoured 
When the grand miracle of sunset draws 
Our souls, all yearning with a joy divine, 
To share the fleeting glory, ere it goes 
To glean new splendors for the ruby morn. 
'Tis ever thus with true impassioned love : 
Love's sun, like that of day, may set, and set, 
It hath as bright a rising in the morn. 
True love has no gray hairs; his golden locks 
Can never whiten with the snows of time. 
Sorrow lies drear on many a youthful heart, 
Like snow upon the evergreens ; but love 
Can gather sweetest honey by the way, 
E'en from the carcass of some prostrate grief. 
We have been spoiled with blessings. Though the 
world 



186 SONNETS — ATT REVOIR. 

Holds nothing dearer than the hope that's fled, 

God ever opens up new founts of bliss — 

Spiritual Bethsaidas where the soul 

Can wash the earth-stains from its fevered loins. 

We carve our sorrows on the face of joy, 

Reversing the* true image ; we are weak 

Where strength is needed most, and most is given. 

Thus musing, as they chatted in the train, 
The whistle broke my reverie, as one 
Might be awakened from a truthful dream. 
The city gas-lights flashed into our eyes ; 
And we, half-shrinking from the glare and din, 
Thought but of two more partings on the morn, 
"When Love should be enfettered, hand and foot, 
For the long aeon of a human year. 



Sangster's Canadian Poems. 

THE "ST.LAWRENCEAKD THE SAGUEMI" 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

MRS. SUSANNA MOODEE. 

Belleville, July 28th, 1856, 

SiE, — Accept my sincere thanks for the volume of beautiful 
Poems with which you have favored me. If the world receives 
them with as much pleasure as they have been read by me, your 
name will rank high among the gifted Sons of Song. If a native 
of Canada, she may well be proud of her Bard, who has sung in 
such lofty strains the natural beauties of his native land. Wish- 
ing you all the fame you so richly deserve, I subscribe myself, 
your sincere admirer. 

To Mr. Charles Sangster. Susanna Moodie. 

EEV. J. MACGEORGE. 

Amongst the very few Bards which Canada has yet produced, 
Mr. Sangster occupies the very first rank, and he will even 
occupy a prominent position in the literary annals of our 
Province. 

LONDON NATIONAL MAGAZINE. 

Western Canada is enabled to boast, and does boast somewhat 
.oudly, of Charles Sangster, who has celebrated in Spenserian 
Stanzas the beauties and the sublimities of the St. Lawrence 
and the Saguenay. Well may the Canadians be proud of such 
contributions to their infant literature ; well may they be for- 
ward to recognize his lively imagination, his bold masterly style, 
and the fulness of his imagery. * * * * There is much of 
the spirit of Wordsworth in this writer, only the tone is reli- 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

gious instead of "being philosophical. * * * * In some sort, 
and according to his degree., he may be regarded as the "Words- 
worth of Canada. 

His whole soul seems steeped in love and poesy, and finds 
utterance in expression generally eloquent, bold and musical. 
He is thoroughly sentimental, teeming with ideas of the sublime 
and beautiful, and bears evident marks of enthusiastic poetical 
conception. Mr. Sangster is a poet of no mean order, and his 
volume is far the most respectable contribution of Poetry that 
has yet been made to the infant literature of Canada. — Kurort 



We hail the publication of these Poems, to which we readily 
invite attention. They are chiefly upon topics incidental to 
British America ; betray considerable talent, and no slight poetic 
skill and taste, while to their good feeling and admirable tone 
we give our warmest testimony. — Canadian {London) News. 

Mr. Sangster, in his description of the St. Lawrence and the 
Saguenay has vividly pourtrayed the Scenery through which 
they pass ; his book is destined to create a great sensation, and 
should be in the hands of every tourist who visits, or may have 
visited, the beautiful scenery he so charmingly depicts. — Toron- 
to Colonist. 

These Poems are written in a bold masterly style, full of ima- 
gery, and displaying ability of no ordinary kind. Mr. Sangster 
is a Poet, in the true sense of the term, and leads his readers in 
burning language of inspiration from Nature up to Nature's 
God. — Ottawa Times. 

This is a book that, as a Canadian, we are proud of. The sub- 
ject upon which it treats is one well worthy the high talents of 
the Author. We are glad the volume has been published ; it is 
a great addition to the literary products of the Province. To 
tourists it is indispensable. As they pass along on their tour 
of pleasure over these two rivers, it would be a treat to read his 
chaste and classic muse. — Montreal Pilot. 

The material of " Pleasant Memories " is original and excel- 
lent. Mr. Sangster is something more than one of the mob of 
gentlemen who write with ease. TTe should be glad to hear from 
him again. — New York Albion. 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

The Poem entitled " The St. Lawrence and the Saguenay " 
is a master piece ; and in fact the whole book breathes the spi- 
rit of a master mind. It is in every way creditable to Mr 
Sangster, and shows unmistakably that he is a Poet of decided 
ability, of whom Canada, his native place, ought to be proud. 
— Ottawa Monarchist. 

The description of the Thousand Isles is very fine, the Lyric 
to the Isles very musical and beautiful ; there are many fine 
passages in the description of the Saguenay.— Montreal Gazette. 

A writer who will yet make his mark in the literary world. 
— Buffalo Republic. 

Purity pervades every line, and pure thoughts expressed in 
chaste and glowing words blend in the harmony of the measure. 
His Poetry breathes of that faith which penetrates the unseen. 
— Utica Herald. 

The work is essentially Canadian ; but its strongest claim is 
its own intrinsic merits. The spirit, style and sentiment are 
on the whole eminently Poetical. — Newburg Index. 

What we most admire in Mr. Sangster is his warm and ardent 
love for the beautiful and the good, and his never-failing charity ; 
that he possesses poetical talent in a high degree any one capable 
of judging with allow. His reverence of the God-like, his love 
of the beautiful, his adoration of the true, commend his first 
breathings in the world of authorship to every right-thinker. 
— Kingston Commercial Advertiser. 

We hail this contribution to the scanty store of Canadian 
Literature, and we congratulate Kingston in having in its midst 
one possessed of poetical talent in so high a degree. — Kingston 

News. 

These Poems as a whole are every way worthy the Genius of a 
true-born poet like Mr. Sangster, our Native Bard ; the public 
may well afford to patronize the best the country has produced. 
1 — Hamilton Spectator. 

Mr. Sangster is a Canadian Poet of no inconsiderable talent. 
The portions of the larger Poem, " The St. Lawrence and the 
Saguenay," which we have perused, give us a very favorable 



OPINIONS OF THE PEESS. 

opinion of the book. Mr. Sangster possesses a lively imagina- 
tion, united to good descriptive powers, and is likely to make 
himself widely known as a genuine friend of the Muses. — Toron- 
to Globe. 

In " The St. Lawrence and the Saguenay," there breathes a 
spirit of description which might do credit to an author of 
greater fame. — Chatham Advertiser. 

This volume of Poems is a credit to Canadian Literature.— 
British Whig. 

A Canadian Poet, whose poems are far above mediocrity— 
whose songs are of Canada — her mountains, maidens, manners, 
morals, lakes, rivers, valleys, seasons, woods, forests, and abori- 
gines, her faith and hope, merits encouragement. Will he get 
it ? — McKenzie's Message. 



L1BRA RY OF CONGRESS ^ 

iiiiiiii" 



